The Fan
by leuska
Summary: Felicity Smoak, previous child star, has despite having left the spotlight over a decade ago sporadically received disturbing notes in her mail. The last drop is when she receives a love note written in human blood. Her case gets assigned to Oliver Queen, FBIs top criminal profiler, who soon finds out there is nothing easy or simple about Miss Smoak. Crime drama.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: A huge thanks goes to mindrambligs for the inspiration, collaboration with hashing out this idea as well as the most beautiful moodboard (!), as well as hope-for-olicity (jacq) for brainstorming and beta.

**Chapter 1**

_His eyes follow her hungrily from across the street, her silhouette perfectly visible through the wide glass of the cafe's storefront window. Her hair is golden, spilling free across her shoulders in wild waves. He just loves it when she wears her hair like that. It reminds him of her younger self, sweet and innocent and free._

_She is still like that, but she's also grown into a woman with beautiful curves, and he would lie if he said it left him cold._

_He still can't believe it, how luck has finally, after such a long time without, graced him in the form of a greasy newspaper forgotten on a table. The past couple of months, here with her in Star City, have been the happiest he's ever been. Made him feel closer to Chrissy than he felt in years. _

_A car honks and it almost makes him jump out of his skin, but he's still partially hidden behind the parked car. His eyes quickly wander back to her, hungrily caressing her lovely features. She hasn't changed at all and yet changed completely. He is ashamed to admit he has no idea if he would have recognized her immediately if he bumped into her on the street. _

_But oh, he really wants to believe he would. Those sharp, laughing eyes, he would have recognized amongst a million. _

_She's smiling now, chatting animatedly with the barista while waiting for the order. It's always the same; two lattes, one with two pumps sugar free vanilla (for her) and one with cinnamon and nutmeg (for that colleague of hers, lucky bastard)._

_She's made it almost too easy for him; she's a creature of habit, his Lisy. He is so proud of her. Can't wait to finally meet her in person, after so many years. Can't wait to see that dazzling smile directed his way, her gentle laugh and appreciation only for him once she realizes how he's loved her, all this time._

_Not too much long now, he tells himself. But still not quite yet, just a little longer._

_He bids her farewell, slowly slinking into the shadows of the alley at his back. The golden locket jingles in his pocket merrily, a memento of why he is doing this, what he yet has to do. _

_It's time for another letter._

Xxx

Her ear is burning off. Quite literally.

Seriously, how does her mother do it? Talking without a single interruption for half an hour. And no, it's not an exaggeration; she's, in fact, timing it. Currently, she's are on minute 34 of her rant and right in the middle of a high-pitched screech before once again gushing over her newest boyfriend. Who is apparently just _puuuuuurfect_. One of a kind. A perfect match. Funny and smart and accomplished, on his way to achieve great things once bis bank finally approves the credit for his new, one-of-a-kind business plan.

Felicity isn't by default a mean person, so she doesn't ask her mom how her new boyfriend can be all of that and still live with his mother at fifty-one and working odd hours as a bouncer in a bar with two DUIs under his belt (yeah, she's checked). She doesn't want to be too judgmental either, Lord knows, the man could very well be a saint, if he is able to live under one roof with his mom.

Felicity has put half a country between her and her own yet she still feels like she gets more than her fair share of mother-daughter time.

Her mother lets out another exited shriek at the other end, because Dennis apparently bought her flowers and asked her on a date like the perfect gentleman he is, but the high-pitched sound makes Felicity wince. Maybe she can get away with making herself a coffee. It's not like her mom is actually waiting for a reply on her end.

Putting her mother on speaker phone – _seriously, why hasn't she done this earlier? She is supposed to be a freaking genius_ – she crossed the open space of the loft from the couch into the open kitchen.

Switching the coffee machine on, she waits patiently for the pot of afternoon coffee to brew while still half-listening to her mother's chirping voice in the background.

A key scrapes in the lock somewhat awkwardly before the door bursts open with Curtis spilling inside, his hands weighted down with various packages, mail as well as bags full of Chinese takeout, his messenger back thrown across one shoulder, jacket across the other.

She smiles at the familiar sight and hastens to help him out, the man who would rather spend fifteen minutes rearranging the dishwasher than wash the one extra cup by hand. Same goes for packages and work materials, apparently. Grabbing the biggest box from him, she hauls it over to the kitchen island, releasing the box with a heavy thud.

"Jesus, Curtis," she admonishes, slightly out of breath. "What on earth is inside? A herd of baby elephants?"

Curtis flashes her a huge grin. "Actually, we got new joint prototypes. E-Hand-Y swears they are gonna fit this time."

"What was that?" comes Donna's surprised voice from the background.

"It's just Curtis!" Felicity calls loudly, giving Curtis a slow roll of her eyes in answer to his raised eyebrows.

"Oh, sweetheart, hi! Hope you are not working yourself as hard as my Felicity and spending some time with that hot boyfriend of yours! At least one of you two should be responsible and spend an evening at a bar somewhere, having fun."

"Hi, Miss Smoak!" Curtis calls dutifully into the general direction of the phone before he takes one of the bags, taking out the containers of food and spreading them across the counter. "I swear I am trying to take good care of your daughter. I brought us lunch."

Felicity shoots him a frown – _Don't egg her on!_ – which Curtis answers only with a huge grin.

There is a girlish giggle before her mom's voice admonishes, "It's Donna, sweetie! How many times do I have to remind you?! Also, That's very nice of you, dear. I am sure if it were up to her, my daughter would starve herself and not even notice."

In the midst of opening up the kitchen cupboards to take out bowls and plates, Felicity doesn't suppress her eye-roll.

"Okay, you two go eat now, I will catch up with you later Felicity, okay?"

"Okay, mom."

That certainly catches her by surprise. If she knew eating lunch would give her enough reason to get her mom off the phone sooner, she would come up with a food excuse way sooner.

"Bye sweetheart. Take care of yourself. Love you."

That makes Felicity smile, because no matter how difficult the relationship, her mother's open love and appreciation for her never was. "Always. Love you too."

And just like that, her mother's voice is gone, the loft falling blessedly silent. Curtis throws her a questioning look as they work in perfect coordination opening up cartons and filling their plates while Felicity rolls her eyes again. "You don't want know. It's that new boyfriend of hers. Perfect, apparently," she says with a voice doused in irony and skepticism.

Curtis laughs softly in understanding. "You want to talk about it?"

"Hell, no!"

At that, Curtis laughs loudly. They flop onto the couch with their plates full and for a while, there is just the sound if them munching on their food.

"Oh, I almost forgot," Curtis says. "You got a letter. Not for the company but yourself. Private, it appears, though the company's name's there too, but it's too small to possibly hold anything related. Wait a sec…" He makes a quick dash to the kitchen, fetching a small square envelope from the counter before he deposits it into Felicity's lap.

Truth to be told, his very announcement has made her uneasy. She rarely receives mail. That is, conventional mail. There are of course the various company packages and documentation, contracts being delivered by couriers. But the last time she received a classic letter like this…

Her hands start to tremble when as her eyes fall onto the unruly blocked letters and she recognizes the handwriting at once. Addressed to: _Lisy Smoak, Helix Consultations_

_Lisy._ Nobody calls her that anymore. No one since her father. And nowadays, no one but the writer of these letters. It's been three months since she's gotten the last one. She would lie if she said they didn't creep her out. Always, hope beyond hope, she desperate wishes that particular package to be the last.

This one is the fifth. Her stomach churns.

"Felicity?" Curtis asks in curious tone, "Are you okay?"

_No, she's not. _"It's from him," she quips.

"Oh, damn! My bad, I completely forgot about that sick bastard."

She wishes she could have the same luxury to forget about him too.

"Want _me_ to open it? You know, if there is a bomb in there, my head is less valuable than yours."

He goes for humor, but it makes her even more sick to the stomach. The Chinese food suddenly wants back up. With trembling hands, she smooths out the envelope in her fingers, feeling for its contents, but it's completely flat and thin to the touch. At least there is no jewelry inside this time.

She slips a single finger under the flap of that pristinely white envelope, easing the flap away. Her eyes fall on the stamp, showing the mail was sent out two days ago somewhere from within Star City.

Her stomach flips._ God,_ she's already known they live in the same city, but it still makes her insides queasy with unease. There is no return address, of course there isn't, as it never is. Why make it easier on her and take away the creep-out factor?

With a heart beating wild in her chest, she opens the envelope and a single sheet of paper falls out.

She takes it into her hands and the paper shakes with the tremble of her fingers. She deliberately has to steady her hands to see the words. Her head feels light headed, heart trying hard to escape the cage of her ribs.

It's just a note, really, consisting of nothing but a few words, but the curtness makes it that much more ominous.

_Soon, my love. Be prepared, for it won't be much longer. I am coming for you soon._

Bile rises in her throat, the note falling from her fingers. A hand clapped over her mouth, she dashes from the room to the nearest bathroom. Through the ringing in her ears, she doesn't hear Curtis call after her.

It's not the words however, that creep her out to the point of being physically ill. It's the ink. Because the note, those foreboding words, are written in blood.

xxx

"Oliver."

There is no response.

"Oliver."

Still nothing.

"Agent Queen!"

Oliver jerks on his spot, head swiveling towards Diggle. Blinking slowly, it takes him a while to relocate his mind back to where his body is also, his office.

His eyes cut to the small clock on the wall and okay, wow, it's _late_.

His eyes burn from pouring through the files the entirety of the day. The wheels of his chair squeak on the linoleum as he pushes himself back a little, running a hand through his hair while his eyes absentmindedly take in his surroundings. His desk's littered with manila envelopes, evidence sheets, glossy crime scene photos, hand-written notes, testimonies…and a single stained and – sadly – empty coffee cup.

"Oliver, you with me, man?" the voice is quieter now and Oliver finally turns towards its source.

"What?" he asks in an unnecessarily defiant voice, his hands flying up to straighten his loosened tie. Some in Diggle's face softens at the sight he makes and Oliver isn't sure he likes it.

"Man, you need more rest."

_Tell him something he doesn't know already. _Instead, he replies in a growly tone, "Not you too, Dig."

"Thea?" Dig asks knowingly, amusement dancing across his features.

"And your wife," he adds on a sigh, which only makes Dig's grin grow.

"She is a smart woman. _And_ your boss," he points out pointedly even as Oliver chooses to ignore him. They've danced this dance a million times.

He has no time to rest. Not until that sick son of a bitch murdering young girls in a most gruesome way is still at large in his city. The same city his very own sister lives. So excuse him if he actually tries to make progress on a case that's been idly collecting dust on the SCPD's desk for ten long months.

It took nine months and three victims until SCPD admitted defeat and realized they were way over their heads with this one, desperately in needed of outside help. And that's where Oliver comes in.

Thirty-two years of age, he is one of the youngest FBI's elite profilers. And having spent the past week meticulously sifting through dozens of files, reports and dossiers, Oliver now has a pretty clear picture as to why to FBI's presence on this case is so direly needed.

The SCPD hasn't made any progress nor gained a single suspect in ten long months, and the city's residents are slowly starting to panic. The local media have dubbed their perpetrator the Star City Slasher (a.k.a the SCS). A fact Oliver instantly took a strong dislike against, because being given a media nickname nearly always adds to the serial killer's narcissistic feeling of power. True, it can also lessen his vigil, cause him to grow arrogant and therefore sloppier in his actions, more prone to making mistakes. But those are variables Oliver never wants to count on.

As in the case of SCS – Oliver inwardly cringes, but okay, the name has slowly creeped up on him in the last couple of days – the man hasn't done a single mistake yet. Not from anything Oliver's read so far. Nothing sticks out suggesting this would be the work of a hasty, impulsive killer. Which is that more frustrating. The character of the murders themselves…well. Apart from their obvious wickedness and excessive use of force, there is a level of peculiarity to them that conveys a message. A message Oliver has yet to uncover.

"Earth to Oliver?"

"Hmm? What, John?" Oliver asks absentmindedly, once again lost to the case when his involuntarily eyes seek out the statement of SCS's first victim Amanda Sweet's mother. A cute, young girl with long straight sandy hair, not even twenty-two years of age. Just a hair older than Thea, as all the victims are, which makes Oliver's stomach churn whenever he thinks about it. A musical arts student at the Juilliard School in New York, home for winter-break and found dead behind a dumpster in an alley, first of three. Having her throat slit, but that was not what killed her, because her murderer had a way with her before that, leaving seventeen stab wounds littering the girl's frail body.

"Oliver, you listening?" Diggle sounds exasperated. "C'mon man, I said Lyla wants to see you. Now."

Oliver forces his attention back to Dig, his eyebrows scrunching in confusion when his partner's words finally register. "What? Why? I have nothing new to report-"

"I know. I think it has something to do with a potentially new assignment."

Oliver's frown merely deepens. Certainly, Lyla knows that he has no time or place of mind to occupy himself with any other but the Slasher case. That needs to take precendence over everything and anything. Taking over from the SCPD and having to sift through ten months of leads that may already run cold, he has more than enough on his plate as it is and he absolutely refuses to divert his attention elsewhere.

Someone is terrorizing _his_ city, he won't stand for it.

xxx

He strides into Executive Assistant Director Michael's office, his impatience pumping each of his steps.

"You wanted to see me, Director?" Lyla gives a curt nod, silently beckoning with her chin to the chair opposite her desk.

"Indeed, Agent Queen. Shut the door, please."

That does _not_ sound good. So once shutting the door and sitting down, Oliver decides to take the proactive approach.

"Look, Lyla," he starts with a less formal address. It's public knowledge that Director Michaels isn't partial to titles. "Dig mentioned you might have another assignment for me. And thought I want you to know that I really appreciate your trust in my abilities-"

"Oliver-"

"-I also need you to know that I am knee deep into the Slasher case and-"

"Oliver,"

He just goes on. "-Until that's off the table, I can't get distracted by taking on any new-"

"Agent Queen!" Lyla snaps and there is a clear warning and command to shut up, one Oliver doesn't dare to disobey.

"Will you quiet down and listen to me for a second?" One delicately shaped eyebrow raised, Oliver knows he is in trouble. He nods docilely.

"Unfortunately, I do have an assignment for you," he starts to protest but she won't let him, "and it's non-negotiable." She heaves a sigh. "Look, the order came straight from Director Waller's office."

That effectively shuts him up, his mouth opening and closing a couple of times before he finally manages to form words. "Amanda Waller herself?"

He has never met Director Waller in person, but the woman's reputation certainly proceeds her, and if the rumors are to believe to be true, then is the FBI lead by one ruthless woman leading with an iron fist and launching a number of black ops and shady operations Oliver doesn't even want to come close with a ten-foot-pole.

"I can't be pulled from the Slasher case, Lyla," he urges, his voice suddenly pleading.

"And you won't," she promises. "You'll just have to split your focus between two cases. The second case is also here in Star City and in need of a good criminal profiler, which is, unfortunately, you, as Director Waller asked for you specifically. Don't worry, though, Oliver. If all goes well, this won't even take you that much time and you will be back with full-focus on the Slasher case in no time."

The knowledge he won't be pulled from the Slasher case is somewhat reassuring, but still, Oliver hates the idea of having to invest time and energy into something else. No less because he knows trying to solve a difficult crime can't be done in any other way than complete and undivided attention.

"What is the assignment," he asks carefully in resignation, suspiciousness lacing his tone, but Lyla smiles, knowing she's got him. Grabbing a rather thin manila file from her desk, she pushes it towards Oliver.

"Felicity Smoak. Twenty-four years of age. Former child star till the age of thirteen, she's been living in anonymity for the past decade. In the last couple of months, she's been receiving mysterious packages seemingly from a former fan. She went to police after receiving the third package, first arriving in April and the other two in June and July respectively. She claimed she was scared for her safety, but the SCPD dismissed it as an overreaction."

"What was in the packages?" Oliver thoughtfully asks.

"The first was a letter of appreciation for her former childhood career along with a bracelet, second package had another, even more personal note and a gift in the form pair of silver earrings. Third letter had a ring and a note that was apparently it for her and she went to the local police."

Inwardly, he rolled his eyes.

To Oliver, it appeared the SCPD made quite the correct assumption, for once. This didn't seem like a case at all, and it started to rub him wrong the wrong way that some former little princess wanted to drain the FBI's resources, possibly for personal gain due to the following media coverage. The media would have a field day – _FBI solves stalker case of former childhood sweetheart. You won't believe it, the stalker was nothing more but an old fan!...read more on page 6_.

"How do we know it's not just a hoax, a publicity stunt Ms. Smoak created herself to regain some of her former fame?"

Lyla acknowledges his line of questioning with a nod of her head. "I understand what you are getting at. However, it appears Ms. Smoak doesn't seek public attention whatsoever. She's been living in anonymity for a decade and has not alerted any media, only the SCPD about this."

Oliver nodded in apparent understanding. "Still, Lyla," he said, threading carefully. "Is this really a good cause to waste FBI resources on? Why have the FBI's top specialists deal with such menial tasks as a stalker case?"

Lyla gives him a sharp look while she doesn't mince words, "If you are asking about what's in it for Amanda Waller, I can't possibly tell you. But if I had to guess, I'd say she hopes for good publicity on a potential easy and yet high-profile case."

Oliver sighs, resigning himself to the idea of having to take on the Stalker case on. Wonderful, the Stalker vs. the Slasher. There is no doubt in Oliver's mind as to which case bears more importance. Maybe Ms. Smoak thinks she can use her former fame and call in on favors with SCPD or the FBI, but she will be sorely disappointed if she thinks Oliver will devote half of his time on her secret admirer problems, for he has a serial killer to catch.

Deciding to walk the road of the least resistance for now, he takes the file from Lyla's waiting fingers without another word, offering a nod and a superficial smile.

"All set then," Lyla proclaims, standing from her chair in a gesture of finality, "You'll find more information inside the file along with Ms. Smoak's contact and address details. Director Waller expects a preliminary report at your earliest convenience."

Oliver grits his teeth, putting on a fake smile, offering a compliant "Of course."

TBC

A/N: Dont be shy, come and share your thoughts, here or at tumblr under my nick leuska. :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

_The distance between the buildings is only one street plus two sidewalks, but it appears much bigger from the rooftops. True, her apartment is a couple of stories down, but still. It feels like she's unreachably far. His one luck is that nearly all of the windows at this side of the building are floor high, so he has the perfect view. Another wonderful thing is that she doesn't like or care to pull the curtains, which is wonderful, especially watching her at night._

_It feels like a message. It's like she _wants_ to be watched. Like she leaves the curtains open so he can take a peek at her life, even though he is not yet a part of it._

_He had so much fun tonight. He got to play the courier with her stupid colleague again, delivering mail he's previously extracted from their very own company mailbox downstairs. _

_The man didn't even spare him a glance when signing his name in that unreadable signature of his. It momentarily angered him, the lack of interest in him. After all, he put so damn much effort in his disguise, wig and fake moustache and all, and the man didn't even look at him properly, so what was the point of all the work?_

_But no. He mustn't think like that. There was indeed a point, to test if he noticed. A test her colleague utterly failed, much to his glee. So that was fun, knowing he succeeded to fool him. Again. Like that time he delivered his fourth letter, the one with the beautiful sterling silver animal charms bracelet. At least he thought it genuine silver, yet he couldn't be sure. He was no expert, after all. But he was sure she would cherish it no matter what. She was like that, his Lisy. _

_That's why it was so fucking exciting earlier today. Because he knew she was home, and while her stupid, gullible colleague signed for the delivery, he got a little peak inside. _

_No Lisy in sight, though. That was disappointing. But no matter. He got his fill of her now._

_She is nervous tonight, has been pacing the floor for a good portion of the hour. He sent his note several days ago, did she get it? Well, of course she did, silly him, it's been a week. Sadly, he can't be here all the time, since he has duties elsewhere. Duties that are getting increasingly more difficult and frustrating to fulfill, but he will do them without complain so he can make good on the promise to her._

_It makes him wonder, though. Did she like the note? Did she appreciate all the effort he put into it? He literally bled for her, so he hoped she understood. Well, of course she did, she is a genius, his Lisy. Is she as excited as he is at the prospect of finally meeting in person after all this time? He honestly can't wait._

_She is wearing a white camisole and pajama bottom...pale blue, with little white objects he can't really see for this distance, even as he presses the binoculars tighter to his eyes. The TV is playing in the background but she's not watching it, her mind occupied elsewhere. _

_He wraps his coat tighter around him. It's October and already fairly chilly, especially up here on the roof, but she's worth it. He presses the binoculars to his eyes again, needing to see her face up close one more time. She looks haggard, now that he thinks about it. Worried. She really needs to sleep more and eat better. And definitely work less._

_He will take care of all of that once they are together. For now though, he thinks as he walks back to the safety iron ladder, it's time to send her another message._

xxx

Felicity will never eat Chinese again.

Her stomach still churns at the sight of the leftover containers sitting in her fridge, silently mocking her as she takes out a carton of juice to pour herself a glass.

The last couple of days have been unnerving, to say the least.

Even Curtis is quiet at his workstation, silently typing away, leaving her to her thoughts yet still not alone. It's actually really nice of him, the time he has been spending at the loft with her since she got the note.

It's kind of sad too, the fact she doesn't have anybody but a colleague to call when a sick stalker threatens to come for her. It's an isolation of her own making, of course, her desire to be a nobody in a sea of other nobodys. She usually likes it this way. But right now, it does look pretty pathetic even to her.

She is so grateful for Curtis, who has been understanding enough to not even ask. He just stayed, despite having a lovely fiancé waiting at him back at home and an early spring wedding to plan.

Her eyes glance to her phone, noting it's nearly noon. If he's punctual, FBI special agent Queen should be here any minute now.

Detective Drake called her last night, telling her the precinct's Captain was transferring her case over to the FBI and apologized to not be personally involved in her case anymore. She didn't state a reason other than the FBI had more resources and could offer her case the time it deserved. Which felt like a nice way of saying SCPD had better things to do than hunt her stalker and was actually glad to get rid of the nuisance.

It should probably make her glad somebody with more expertise and dedication took over. But it only makes her more nervous. Because she liked Detective Drake. She had only one interview with the woman, but she had a good feeling about her. She was professional, compassionate and understanding and despite being under huge amounts of work and pressure. Detective Drake was the first official who believed the seriousness of the situation. It was definitely an improvement from the first time she went to the police with this. And okay, maybe FBI taking over means her problem would be taken a little more seriously. That still doesn't elevate Felicity's nerves as she waits for the doorbell to ring.

It's the uncertainty that gets to her. The not knowing of what to expect just as she wants nothing more than for this thing to disappear and be gone so she can return back to her normal life.

The doorbell rings, its shrill sound causing Felicity to jump in surprise. Curtis is at the door before she even has the time to run a calming hand over her skirt smoothing out the fabric in a nervous gesture before standing up and taking a fortifying breath.

Two men in suits walk in and Felicity lets out an involuntary yet – thank God – silent gasp. Because if there were ever poster FBI agents, these two would be it. The look like they are fresh from a Hollywood movie.

Both are fairly young, tall and handsome, although the word _tall_ doesn't make the darker-skinned agent any justice. The man is _huge_, muscles bulging from under his suit's jacket, straining its fabric.

The other agent currently shaking hands with Curtis has a nice build too, but it's less obvious. His hair is short, light brown and slightly disheveled, which seems peculiar compared to his otherwise impeccable and professional appearance. There is light stubble peppering his jaw, offering the look of a carelessly rugged rock star, although Felicity is not fooled for a minute to know the stubble is anything but a perfectly maintained a rigorously cared for feature.

The man finally turns to her, an expression of neutral, nearly casual professionalism, and Felicity instantly notes how very handsome he is up close. A symmetric face, strong jaw and impossibly blue yet slightly cool eyes that now seem to take her in, clinically cataloguing everything they are seeing.

It's unnerving.

There's not a single emotion on the man's face and maybe it's his professional mask, maybe it's how he is privately too, but his expressionlessness makes Felicity's nervousness rise to a nearly unbearable level.

It propels her to step forward, joining the men in the foyer at last. "Agent Queen, I presume," she tells the man with the cool glance with a smile (for some reason, she just _knows_ he is the leading agent of the two here), going for warmth as she offers him her hand. "Felicity Smoak."

His touch is slightly cool yet firm. Her head turns to the other man, stepping closer now. She doesn't know his name, but he rescues her from any possible blabbering by introducing himself.

"Agent Diggle," he throws the man next to him a pointed look, "Agent Queen's partner. Nice to meet you, Miss Smoak." Unlike his partner, Agent Diggle's handshake is filled with warmth, his big dark hand dwarfing hers in the best possible of ways.

"Felicity, please," she offers with a smile.

The man returns the gesture. "Alright, Felicity." His voice is deep and eyes kind and Felicity is instantly drawn to him.

A throat clears and when she looks to the source, she's met with the pair blues again, their surprising disfavor causing a shiver to run down her spine.

"Don't you want to see our badges, Miss Smoak?" Agent Queen asks coolly, his tone almost challenging.

Felicity takes a step back, surprised by the question as well as the man's rather hostile tone. She would take it personally, were it not for the fact that Agent Queen was shooting the same reproachful glance at Curtis too.

"I- uhm…no? I mean- I don't need…I obviously know who you are. I've been expecting you. Detective Drake called last night so I knew you were coming, otherwise I would have obviously asked who you are and what the frack you are doing in my loft," she flounders with a nervous chuckle. _Oh,_ _God_. Twenty-four years of age and she still can't stop to babble when faced with an unexpected situation. Her eyes momentarily squeeze shut in embarrassment.

"I think- under the circumstances, I think that's not necessary," comes Curtis's also floundering voice and _great_. At least they are both in it together.

Agent Queen seems unfazed though. Despite their rather unenthusiastic response, he takes out his badge, showing it first to her, then to Curtis, before he pockets it again, continuing to scowl them like small children.

"I think that exactly under _these_ circumstances, it's very necessary, Mr. Holt," Agent Queen admonishes, not unkindly but pointedly.

"Right," Felicity says, her cheeks turning pink. Because there's a stalker sending weird messages to her, and here she is, letting two strangers into her home without a second thought.

"Don't worry about it. Just be cautious," Agent Queen tells her, his tone softening upon spotting her utter embarrassment. "I gave the same lecture to Mr. Alvarez downstairs. He let us in without a second glance, not verifying our identity. That is absolutely reckless and begs the question why to have a doorman in the building at all if they let just about anybody in."

Oh, poor Mr. Alvarez, Felicity thinks, immediately sympathizing with her sweet, old doorman who was surely heartbroken by getting such a harsh lecture from the stoic Agent Queen. Her eyes wander to Agent Diggle, subconsciously seeking support and she is not disappointed. His silent, understanding smile instantly makes her feel better.

Only then does she notice they are still standing in the foyer. "Uhm, shall we sit down?"

Once seated, Agent Queen goes straight down to business, his hand disappearing in the inner pocket of his suit jacket. Something rustles and there is it, her bloody note in a small, sealed plastic bag. He places is on the table between them silently, a harsh reminder of why they are all here.

Felicity can't help her visceral reaction. Her stomach rolls, hands curling into tight fists over her knees, knuckles turning white while she works on gulping down the bile rising in her throat.

"I believe you are familiar with this, miss Smoak," Agent Queen says, and there is surprising gentleness in his tone.

She nods, not daring to speak yet. Agent Queen obviously doesn't expect an answer, continuing smoothly. "Unfortunately, our lab technicians have confirmed the note was indeed written in human blood." Her stomach rolls again. "What's even more interesting, however, is that there is no DNA match in the database. Curiously, there were no prints on the note outside yours, of course. Which suggests the perpetrator knows very well what he is doing, but he might just as well have watched too many CSI episodes. At this moment, we can't even be sure the blood on the note is its writer's."

Ever since the note has made its appearance, Felicity's eyes haven't left the table, her eyes burning a hole into the rusty-colored words. But after Agent Queen's words, a hand shoots to her mouth to keep the whimper inside. The thought never even occurred to her. She always just assumed the blood was…his.

_Soon, my love. Be prepared, for it won't be much longer. I am coming for you soon._

"Felicity," comes a gentle voice and her glistening eyes finally unglue from the taunting words and the smell of blood her overactive imagination is so unhelpfully supplying. Agent Diggle is looking at her, understanding and compassion shining in his eyes, but also steadiness and patience, and it helps. It grounds her.

"I know this is hard for you, and that you are scared. But Agent Queen here," his eyes momentarily glance to his partner, "is one of our best profilers. So we need you to tell us everything you potentially can about this."

Slowly bobbing her head, Felicity takes a fortifying breath. "Okay."

"Could you start at the beginning? When you received the first letter?" Agent Diggle asks gently and she holds his gaze, the tight and cold ball of nerves finally unfurling under his steady, patient gaze.

She stands and retrieves the small shoebox she's prepared for this meeting from a side table, putting it on the table to rest between them – the two agents sitting on the sofa while she and Curtis sit in their separate chairs across them. Pulling off the lid, she reveals its contents to the agents.

Notes, gifts, as well as envelopes they arrived in. She's kept them all.

"I've received the first note in April," Felicity says, extracting a short computer-written note from the box, offering it to Agent Queen, who – however – refuses to take it from her, silently shaking his head.

"Dig?" He turns to his partner instead and the man nods, extracting a roll of evidence bags from his carry-on, offering one to his partner, who takes it from him. Holding it open, he directs Felicity to put it inside. "We already have your prints from Detective Drake, Ms. Smoak, so yours on the evidence won't be a problem. Just trying to avoid further contamination," he explains curtly.

Oh right. She had to give her prints to the police so they could be excluded from the ones potentially found on the note, if there were any.

Nodding, she carefully pushes the note inside the bag. "It's Felicity, please," she reminds, "and you can keep that open, because _this_," she takes out a delicate, circle golden bracelet adorned with green gemstones from the box, "came right up with it. Oh, and here's the envelope too," she passes it over to Agent Queen who then seals the bag, studying the note and the bracelet for a while before passing them over to his colleague for inspection. Felicity doesn't have to see the note to know exactly what it says, yet still, her eyes linger on it as Agent Diggle reads it.

_I cannot believe how much you've grown. It's been years, but in my mind, I can still see you as the 13-year old girl who could make me smile and laugh with her antics. But you have grown into so much more than that. I want you to know, you always made my life better just by existing. I hope we can pick up where we ended._

It still makes her sad. And angry. She's been so hopeful back then. How naïve of her.

"That was the first one," she forces herself to say in an even tone, and if her voice trembles a little, it can very well be attributed to the whole situation, not what that note meant for her for a rather embarrassingly long time.

She feels Agent Queen's eyes on her, but she refuses to acknowledge his stare. He wouldn't understand. As it's not relevant to this case either way.

"Then there was the second note, also computer written, delivered in June by post, also from a postal office directly here in Star City," she says, a shiver running down her spine as she takes the note out from the box along with its envelope and a simple golden chain, "this came with it." She passes it over into another evidence bag Agent Diggle holds out for her before offering it to his partner.

_I know we haven't been in touch for quite some time, but believe me, I needed you more than you needed me, Lisy. It took me years to finally find you. I won't let you go this time._

She was so sure, when she's gotten the second parcel. Felt so hopeful. She was utterly stupid. But she can't dwell on that, so while the Agents study the contents, she searches the box for the letter and envelope number three. "This is the one that really freaked me out." She says. "At this point I knew something wasn't okay. The first ones, I thought they could be from former fan of my childhood alter ago simply figuring out who I was now and showing his-" she makes air quotations with her fingers, "appreciation, albeit in an unorthodox way, but they didn't seem…harmful, for the lack of a better word. Then this came," she offers up the handwritten note with a slightly trembling hand.

_I am coming for you, my love. We've been apart for too long. You are not a girl anymore, but a woman I now know is meant for me. You're mine. And I'll have you._

"That's when I went to the police for the first time."

"Wait, what do you mean for the first time?" interrupts Agent Queen absentmindedly, still studying the first two notes laid out in front of him on the table, taking notes into a small black moleskin. When he is met by silence, his head shoots up, taking her in, his eyebrows pulled together in confusion at the incredulous stare she's giving him, because the man can't be serious.

"Wait. I thought you were briefed on the situation," she utters through clenched teeth, sudden anger filling her. Still, she gives him the benefit of the doubt, because she still has a hard time an FBI special agent could be this sloppy in his work. "Detective Drake told me she gave over all of her own agenda as well as forwarding you my old report."

Agent Queen just looks at her dumbly, his stare blank. It's all the evidence she needs.

She can't believe this is happening again. She thought she was taken seriously this time, but Agent Queen seems like just another paper-pusher, her to take some notes to sign off at the end of the page, there, case closed, only to push her file to the back of a drawer somewhere to collect dust. How can she even believe to be taken seriously when the agent assigned to her case doesn't even bother to read up on case _before_ meeting her?

And like that, Felicity is furious. Furious and scared, because if the police and the FBI don't give a crap, who else is there for her to turn to?

"No, wait. Detective Drake did, Felicity," Agent Diggle says in a soothing voice. "We have all the necessary documentation, I promise. We know you've tried to deal with this in the past," he sighs ruefully. "As well that the police weren't really helpful the first time around."

"Weren't really helpful!?" Felicity spats in a slightly hysterical voice. "They told me I was overreacting, that I should be grateful for former fans to like me enough to send me expensive gifts even after a decade! They didn't even take _this_," she wildly shakes half-emptied box she is currently holding in her hands for emphasis, "-as evidence! There is no evidence when there is no case, right?!"

Felicity knows she must be coming of as a hysterical bitch, but she's doesn't care. She's had it. She hasn't slept properly in days, she's scared, and the only hope she's clung to that this time, something would happen, someone would actually listen, just shattered. She is shaking all over as she tries to take a calming breath, the remaining content of box rattling as she puts in back to the table.

"Hey. Hey, Felicity, it's alright," Agent Diggle utters quietly, his huge hand soothingly covering hers across the table. Like she is a wild animal in need of caressing back down to compliance. "I am sorry, Felicity. I am sorry the police didn't listen to you in the first place, I am sorry you feel like your concerns haven't been properly addressed and the system has let you down."

_Damn right it has. _What else has to happen for authorities to finally take this seriously?

Instantly, tears spring to her eyes, and she absolutely hates it, hates showing a weakness in front of these men. She needs to keep a cool head, stay level-headed. Her outbursts are not helping the matter. Gulping down her frustrated tears, she takes a moment to compose herself.

A hand holding a glass of water appears suddenly in front of her face. "Here," says Curtis in a gentle, concerned tone. "Drink this. Take a moment." He then turns to the Agents. "It's been a lot on her. With all the creepy notes, she's been in a state of constant vigilance, never really resting, always on alert. It's bound to take its toll," he explains in apology for her outburst.

She wants to take his words and shove them up his ass. She doesn't need to me handled, by either of them. Not even by a friend. She just really needs someone to _listen _and take her seriously for once.

"When did the fourth note arrive, Ms. Smoak?"

The question comes from Agent Queen, factual, but delivered in a calming tone. Felicity finds she can work with that. She can handle the facts.

"September."

"So last month, is that right?" Again, that soothing tone, this time accompanied by a shot of genuine interest shining in his eyes. _About freaking time_, she thinks bitterly.

Nodding, she extracts the fourth note along with a beautiful, charm bracelet, silver with five tiny animals as charms. She hands them to Agent Diggle to bag, who then hands the items to Agent Queen. He reads the note (_For you, my love. You only deserve the best. You saved me, in so many ways. Finally, I am ready to give back._) and then lays the bag next to the others on the table.

"And then there was the note five days ago," he murmurs to no one in particular, aligning the bags in a chronological order, eyeing their content, deeply in though.

"How come you still have these?" he asks, his fingers pointing to the first two packages.

She shrugs, replying in a rather harsh tone. "The police didn't take them into evidence because for them, there was no case to begin with."

"No, that's not what I mean. I mean why have you kept them? Why keep letters and jewelry if you thought they were from a complete stranger?"

Her face flushes. "I never wore them, if that's what you are asking. I don't even care if the jewelry is genuine of not."

"That's not what I am asking."

"Then what _are_ you asking?" she retorts with an exasperated tone. She doesn't understand what he is hinting at. "Well, obviously, I kept them for evidence. And for a good reason, from what we know now."

"Exactly, we know now. But you didn't know then," Agent Queen says, his eyes suddenly animated, his mind onto something, unwilling to let it go – whatever _it_ is – like a dog with a bone. "Don't get me wrong, Ms. Smoak. I am not accusing you of anything, I am just trying to figure something out. It makes perfect sense why you did go to the police after receiving _this_ note," agent Queen points to the third bag, "but why keep the first two deliveries in the first place? Why not throw them out in the first place? If not the jewelry, then the notes. Why hold onto them, along with their envelopes?"

Her cheeks stain crimson on their own volition. Because she knows he can't possibly know, but he's hit a nerve. "I am not sure I understand what exactly you are getting at."

"I think you do." The bluntness of his statements throws her.

"I- I don't know," she says, still shaken by the sudden line of questioning.

"Yes, you do," Agent Queen presses evenly, his eyes suddenly piercing her, certainly lacing his every word. A predator ready to deliver a deadly blow. She feels about ready to jump out of her skin.

"What do you mean?"

"There was a reason why you kept the first two notes. Something changed though, with the third one. And I'd like to know what."

His observation skills are uncanny. He is also kind of sticking his nose into business where it doesn't belong. Felicity mentally retracts, takes a step back, wondering how much to tell him. Whether to tell him at all. Whether he even deserves the truth. And whether he will judge her for it.

Agent Queen's eyes are still pinning her, but she holds his gaze in a silent challenge of who will budge first.

"Oliver," comes the deep voice of Agent Diggle from the side, a warning, but Agent Queen holds her eyes, his blues orbs piercing her deep. "Who did you think those first notes were from, Ms. Smoak?"

She silently gasps, her eyes blinking before breaking away from his, shying away. Fingers nervously twitching while playing with the hem of her blouse, she finally admits. "I thought they might be-" she gulps, clears her throat, her cheeks flaming. "I thought my father might have sent them," she utters in a quiet voice.

"Your father?"

"I- We've fallen out of touch. Ten years ago," she admits, ignoring the hollowness spreading through her chest at the admission. The pain and rejection didn't lessen with time, they only festered, clawing themselves deeper into her soul.

"You thought he was trying to reach out to you." It's a statement made by Agent Diggle's deep voice, understanding in his eyes as he holds her gaze, and Felicity is mortified to realize her own fill with tears of humiliation and shame.

"It's…complicated," she squeaks, her voice trembling.

"Has your father ever tried to contact you in the past?" Back to the matter-of-factness of Agent Queen.

Felicity takes a deep gulp, letting out a shuddering sigh. "No. Never before," she utters, her eyes on the bracelet. "But he knew my favorite color was green, so I thought that maybe…" _Yeah. Stupid her._

Agent Queen clears his throat again, breaking her cycle of spiraling thought of abandonment. "I think given the evidence we have now, we can exclude your father as a potential suspect," he says, a note of gentleness returning to his voice.

_Too little, too late._

Her eyes stay glued to the table. "Yeah."

"Which leaves us with a clear case of a stalker." He studies the notes again. "He very obvious alludes to knowing you during your time in the spotlight, so we have to assume it's connected with him being a fan. That said, it could also be a ruse to anybody who found out about your past persona, trying to throw us off." His eyes dance across the evidence splayed out before him. It's like he's not even talking to them, like he is merely voicing his own thoughts aloud. "What we can agree on is that he's male and someone who views you romantically, but that unfortunately doesn't help us much in this instance, for it could be literally anybody."

Agent Queen sighs, one hand repeatedly running across his hair. He probably doesn't even realize he's doing it, a seemingly nervous habit, which suddenly explains her previous observation of his appearance.

He sighs, almost as if that particular notion pains him just as much as her. Only, for him, it just means more work, whereas for her, it means the endangerment of her physical as well as psychological integrity.

"To be perfectly honest with you, Ms. Smoak, I do believe you have a stalker, a potentially dangerous one at that. But the truth is also that he hasn't contacted or harassed you in any other way but sending notes and gifts that hold barely any clues that could allude to his identity. The pool of possible suspects is enormous and we have not much to go on here. Also, there's the question of what to charge him with once we find out his identity. Sending mail, no matter how creepy, isn't really illegal."

Her heart sinks in her chest. What Agent Queen tells her, veiled in a nice dose of professional detachment, is that there is literally nothing they can or will do at this point. Panic starts to rise in her chest.

Agent Diggle clears his throat, catching her attention, his eyes once again kind at hers. He must have noticed how she's deflated, how her face has fallen, so he quickly elaborates on agent Queen's words. "We'll take these," he points to the evidence bags, "to the lab, have it tested for prints and DNA, possible matches in the system, if any of the jewelry has possibly been reported stolen. Maybe we will get lucky and something pops up. Once we identify him, we can pay him a visit, let him know the FBI's onto him, that could deter him from any further action. Don't lose hope yet, Felicity. We are just getting started, okay?" he gently offers.

Felicity nods again but feels emptiness spreading through her chest. She appreciates agent Diggle's words, but they ring empty to her after agent Queen's bleak summary.

She was not harmed, she is theoretically not being harassed. At least not physically. She never met her stalker, not that she knows of, and he didn't make any move towards her. Yet. So unless he sends her a letter bomb or snatches of off the street, there is nothing for the police or FBI to do.

Felicity feels the first signs of a heavy headache setting in. It's been a little over an hour, but she's spent. Done with. It's a lot to take in, so when the agents don't press her for any more information, Felicity is more than glad.

"One more thing, Ms. Smoak," Agent Queen says rising to his feet and straightening his jacket. Felicity bristles at the address, at the blatant ignoration of her request to call her by her first name. Agent Diggle does, so why won't he? The pain in her skull intensifies at an alarming speed and she just really wants to be left alone.

"In your current situation, I would advise against leaving your apartment much, walking the streets alone at night and so forth."

Excuse her? Not leave her apartment? So, there is no reason for a serious investigation yet there is reason enough for her to play the fearful princess, hiding behind the safe walls of her home? She can feel her pulse that's been painfully thumping in her skull picking up.

"At least until the situation is…resolved."

_Resolved_? The man has a nerve. Who was going to resolve it, if he himself told her in not so many words there was nothing he could do? Well, couldn't or wouldn't, but for Felicity, it's just as well. He just told her to stay cooped up infinitely, until her stalker finds her like he promised or suddenly drops dead. Not a fracking chance in hell.

She rubs her forehead, hiding a grimace of displeasure behind her hand. She wants to stay civil, but in order to do that, she really needs them gone, the useless pack of them. Good and bad cop, what does it matter if they won't _do_ anything?

"We'll stay in touch," Agent Queen begins packing his things, ignoring her now blatant frustration and lack of response.

_Stay in touch_. Wow. That sound awfully like _I'll call you_ after a disastrous date. Which tells her exactly that – not to expect too much, and believe her, after this interview, she really doesn't.

She's on her own.

"Don't hesitate to contact us if anything out of the ordinary happens," Agent Diggle says, stepping closer and squeezing her shoulder in support while she can't even look him in the eye.

She feels so helpless. So alone. The hand leaves her shoulder.

"Ms. Smoak," Agent Queen utters in goodbye and this time, she doesn't try to hide her bristle at his address. The man in insufferable. She snaps.

"Why are you even here, if you can't do anything?" she spats, finally meeting agent Queen's blank stare, challenging him. Expecting him to show at least an ounce of embarrassment, sheepishness that he just wasted her time only to tell her he can't – or won't – do anything for her.

Not Agent Queen, apparently. He stares back at her, unblinking, his gaze firm and empty, before he says with sudden iciness to his words. "Unfortunately, I don't pick my assignments, Ms. Smoak. And I usually don't question my superior's motives."

"Oliver," reprimands Agent Diggle sharply, but she doesn't even care. At least the cat's out of the bag now. They won't help her. No one, apparently, will, and she just wants them gone.

They see each other out and Felicity closes the door behind them, resting her forehead against the wood, a single tear running down her cheek.

xxx

The silence during their drive back to the office is loaded. John hasn't uttered a single word since they left Felicity Smoak's home, which is a clear indicator for Oliver of how very pissed his partner is.

Deciding now being as good a time as any to approach the subject – and with decidedly less witnesses than they'd had at the office – he starts the conversation he knows he won't enjoy. "You know, if you have something to tell me John, just do it."

By the grip he has on the steering wheel, Diggle must be seething, but when he finally speaks, his voice is dangerously low. "You didn't even read her damn file, Oliver."

He doesn't reply to that. They both know it's true. Hindsight's a bitch, and it's not something Oliver is proud of. But he can't change the past.

"Let me guess," Dig continues, his voice gradually rising along with his temper. "And stop me when I get it wrong, by all means, Oliver, stop me. But here's what I think. I think you believed yourself to be such an excellent profiler, you just thought you could wing it. After all, it was just the first interview with a woman you didn't think off much to begin with, am I wrong?" Oliver doesn't interrupt. "A woman you though you could outsmart any given time of day, because she is just some former child star, an attention seeker, am I yet wrong?!"

His last words are not a question at all, so Oliver doesn't respond. Doesn't egg him on. But his silence apparently only infuriates Diggle further.

"You stupid son a bitch!" Diggle explodes, one of his hands angrily hitting the steering wheel before curling his fingers around it like it were someone's neck, knuckles turning white. "If you actually took the time to read that damn file, you'd know not to underestimate her. You'd know that she, in fact, isn't some stupid glitzy-ditzy bimbo looking to reignite her once lost fame. But you didn't, no, because you are just _so good_, because you don't have the time. Because you are so deep in your shit in the Slasher case, you'd rather think her _that_ than realize you might have a real case on your hands you'll have to split your focus for."

_There is no case_, Oliver thinks defiantly, the thought instantly sounding petulant even in his own mind.

Diggle is right. Of course, he is. If nothing else, he should have read the damn file. That was of utmost sloppiness on his part. And that's why Oliver doesn't reply, Diggle's anger being justified in that regard.

It's just…the Slasher case has him in knots. And Felicity Smoak is just another obstacle that stands between Oliver and the capture of that sick bastard.

But Diggle apparently isn't finished yet. "I know you are one arrogant son of a bitch, Oliver, but what you pulled back there, that's _something_, even for you. I've never seen anybody act more unprofessionally in my life."

And that strikes a nerve, because if nothing else, Oliver has always prided himself in his professionalism and high work ethics. Him and professionalism go hand in hand. It's how he got to his position at his age in the first place. Hard work and dedication.

"And man, don't even get me started on how you pressured the poor girl into telling you why she kept those first parcels!"

Now that is something that rubs him the wrong way and Oliver absolutely has to disagree on. "I was actually trying to get information out of her, Digg. I knew she was hiding something while all you did was hold her hand and reassure her it was going to be alright, even though you very well know you can't give out such guarantees."

"You acted like she was guilty of something!"

"Well, I wasn't far off, was I? She hasn't been completely truthful with us."

"And you wonder why?!" Diggle bellows incredulously, his loudness and intensity making Oliver jump in his seat. Fingers tightening over the steering wheel, Diggle throws Oliver a disbelieving look. "You pressured her like she was a crime suspect in the box when the poor girl was just mortified for thinking it was her absent father trying to reach out to her. That was really rich, Oliver."

Oliver doesn't reply to that, either. He's not sorry he pushed. It's how he works. Sometimes you needed to push to get vital information. But even he knows he could have gotten the same information from Felicity Smoak applying a different, more gentle approach. An approach he should have applied right from the beginning.

The fact is, Oliver is well aware he's blown that whole disastrous interview. Gaining the absolute trust of the witness or victim is absolutely crucial in any case. Oliver knows, he can admit as much, he wasn't trying at all. He was antagonistic and cold and his approach was anything but forthcoming, simply because he was angry to be the pawn in Amanda Waller's manipulative games. But he tries to push that back too, because Diggle might have a point, but he still hasn't raised the main issue here, namely that there isn't a case to begin with.

"You were giving her false hope," he deadpans coldly, keeping his gaze straight out of the window.

"That's bullshit, Oliver! I was trying to lift her spirits up so she wouldn't completely shut us out, something you obviously weren't willing to do. And don't you dare playing the legal-grounds card. We are not the impotent local PD. Amanda Waller has fucking tasked you herself. That means she gave you all the FBI's resources on the silver platter to find this guy."

At the mention of Amanda Waller, Oliver sees red, because they wouldn't even be here if she wouldn't manipulate and tip Lyla's hand in the first place. "Yes, and why is that, Digg? Have you even stopped to think for one second what's in it for her?"

Diggle falls silent after that, takes a couple of steadying breaths before continuing in a much calmer tone. "Actually, I didn't, Oliver. I don't give a damn about Amanda Waller. What I care about is that Felicity Smoak obviously has a very dangerous stalker who gets more and more bold with every letter he sends her. A man who we should do everything in our power to identify."

"And charge him with what, exactly, John? Besides, you know there isn't much we can do. Unless anything in those evidence bags turns up in the database, we have nothing. No way to find out who he is. And even if we find out his identity, there's nothing to press charges on! He's just sending her mail. I admit, it's disgusting, but that's just it. Mail."

"You say that because you honestly think there is no case or because you don't want there to be a case?" Diggle accused in a quiet voice. "Even when you didn't read her file, which you made back there painfully obvious – thank you for the secondhand embarrassment, but the way – you heard her. You hear what the police told her when she went there for help a couple of months back. You heard how they didn't do shit even if the guy practically promised to _come for her_. What more do you need to take this seriously? The woman is terrified for her safety, and with good reason. I understand all you see right now is the Slasher case, but this woman needs your help too. Fuck, she _deserves_ it. Oliver, man, you read those notes, they are creepy as fuck. And the guy is right here, in the city, knowing who she is, knowing where she lives, and potentially deranged enough to do something about it once he's tired of writing her lovesick notes. This is not some stupid online harasser our IT can sniff out in two minutes with their hands tied behind their back." Diggle sighs, continuing in his most serious tone.

"Let's be real here, Oliver. You and I both know this guy to be a serious enough threat that if this were Thea or Lyla getting them, we would be running around town hell-bend of catching the son of a bitch who dared to terrorize the women we care about. Clearly, Felicity Smoak has no husband or brother in the FBI, and police won't help her despite the fact that she's done everything right. She kept the evidence, she reported it to the police, and what did the police do? They sent her on her merry way, and now, thanks to _you_, she thinks the same about the FBI." Hands leaving the steering wheel for a moment, Diggle claps his hands together in mock congratulations. "Wow, way to go, Oliver. I understand the Slasher case has you in knots, it has me too, believe me, but that's in no way to treat a victim. God forbid something happened to her tomorrow, if that fucker came after her, you'd never forgive yourself. But what would your remorse be worth to her then?"

He knows Digg is right. That doesn't mean his words don't sting. It's probably the very reason why they sting so much.

"Let's say we find out who he is, Digg, what then?" he asks, his voice quiet. He knows, if only a single one of those notes ever made its way to his sister, he wouldn't care what law could or couldn't do, he would find that son of a bitch and rip him in half.

"That's the easy part." Diggle shrugs. "We put him in a box and have a very long and very intense chat with the fucker about how to treat women right. You know it works on these guys most of the time, we've done it before. Just the fact that we know who he is and can come for him anytime he pulls something like that again is deterrent enough. No one wants a hassle with the FBI. It's the anonymity that's the appeal to these guys, the feeling of power they have over their victims, so let's take that away from him."

"This guy seems different, though," Oliver says thoughtfully, the wheels in his mind spinning. "He _means_ it, Dig. He wants her."

"Even more reason for us to find out who he is before he has a change to act on his impulses."

Oliver nods, doesn't reply any further. There is no need. Diggle is right, as always. It's the quality that's most infuriating about his partner. It's also why he picked John Diggle as his partner in the first place. He could always make him see straight. Seems like his nights at the office might get just a little longer.

xxx

Once back at the office, after checking his mail for any news on the Slasher case (there is none, and he doesn't know whether that's good or bad news), Oliver does what he should have done last night instead of sifting through the evidence of the Slasher's second victim. He reads Felicity Smoak's file.

And wow, okay, only after a couple of pages, he is beyond impressed. As he could already tell from their first personal meeting, Felicity Smoak is so much more than just a former child star. But holly hell, he had no idea the woman was a _certified genius_. He's met only a handful of those during his career and they were always either manipulative shits the likes of Amanda Waller or mousy nerds talking gibberish and hiding behind a keyboard, only barely functioning in real life.

Felicity Smoak is neither of those. She's founded her own tech company while still studying at MIT, graduating _summa cum laude_ of her class and receiving her two degrees, one in computer science and other in electronic engineering the following year. Her company's main objectivebeing bioelectronics, her and her partner, Curtis Holt, are currently working on developing biostimulants and electronic prosthetic technology to help disabled people walk or regain the ability to use their lost limbs again. She even leads a program for war veterans in her free time, for Christ's sake. All in all, it's a mightily impressive resume, not to mention miss Smoak to be just twenty-four years of age.

Color him intrigued.

Oliver realizes, as he looks a little further into the history, that's she's accomplished all of this under her second name. Felicity Smoak came to existence a decade ago after changing her legal name from Felicity Kuttler following the end of her childhood career and her parents divorce. There is nothing tying Felicity Smoak and Felicity Kuttler together in the eyes of the public. Nothing outside a single small article in the local Star City Gazette printed over a year ago mentioning the former tech child star founding her first tech company in Star City. But other than that, there is a very clean cut between the two personalities.

He digs even further, concentrating on Lisy Kuttler and her alter ego, _Lisy the Tech Whiz_, a happy, outgoing and very bright little girl to greet millions of viewers every week from the stage of her own TV show. An only daughter to Noah and Donna Kuttler, shooting to fame at the tender age of eight, being the single host of her own show by ten. A show that's been steadily growing in popularity until she reached the age of thirteen, when the show was abruptly ended.

There is also a photo in the file, and despite his better judgment, Oliver's eyes grow huge in amusement at the picture of the little girl. _Lisy_ is all blue eyes, chubby rosy cheeks, puffy red lips and unruly blond curls. His curiosity piqued, he goes online, searching up a few old episodes of her show as well as her earlier TV appearances, and he can't help it, he's instantly charmed by Felicity Smoak's childhood self.

He can see the appeal, the pull she must have had over masses. Naturally bright, effortlessly charming, sweet, funny and sharp. Very outgoing, apparently, chatting animatedly with the guests of her show, many adults, as well as being a guest on other shows herself. There is an irresistible childhood innocence about her, appealing to Oliver even after all of this time, making it fully understandable why millions of people would fall in love with her.

As he browses through the history, he notices the slightest change in her presence though. She grows older, more serious, but it's mostly prominent when she hits the mark between the age of twelve to thirteen. She appears less natural, less spontaneous. There is the slightest strain to her bubbly self, less spark and more acting. But Oliver is also well aware, back at that time, Lisy was a budding teenager – a young girl just discovering who she was, transitioning from child to an adult in the face of the nation. Naturally, she would want to protect herself a little from that, keep at least a part of herself private from the hungry public eye. It makes him wonder how that must have been like, growing up like that, always in the spotlight, the world waiting for your every step as well as every mistake.

It's a couple of hours later when his phone chirms with an incoming message and he's finally able to unglue his gaze from the computer to his phone screen.

_Oh my God, go home, Ollie._

The corner of his mouth lifts involuntarily, his eyes wandering to the clock hanging on the wall, and wow, okay, it's already 2 AM. Damn, he's really lost track of time.

_How did you know I was still at work? _

He can almost see his sister rolling her eyes as he waits for her to type her reply.

_Where else would you be?_

He chuckles at that. She knows him too well.

_How come you are not asleep yet?_

_None of your business,_ comes her cheeky reply, only to be quickly followed by a second text. _Just joking. Please, don't send the SWAT team after me. I'm at the club, actually. Stocktaking. That time of year again._

_Just be careful- _he starts typing, but even as he types, he can already see a number of messages appearing on his screen in rapid succession.

_And yes. I'll stay safe. _

_Roy is here too and will bring me home. _

_Already promised. _

_Stop breathing down my neck._

He smiles at that, deletes what he's been writing in order to type a short: _Alright. Love you, Speedy._

_Love you too, overbearing, grumbly big brother._

With a smile, he pockets his phone and shuts down his computer, tidying up his desk, his thoughts wandering back to Felicity Smoak. With a pang of professional as well as personal shame, he has to admit he's wronged her. She's nothing of what he thought of her – an entitled former star slash attention seeker. She was an extraordinary child with and is an even more extraordinary adult with a career she worked very hard to achieve. A woman who nowadays apparently wants nothing more than to lead an accomplishes, quiet life. She seems almost too perfect, which makes Oliver wonder what skeletons she has hiding in her closets.

As he switches off his work lamp at half past three in the morning, being the last person in the office but for the cleaning lady who he sends a nod of his head and an appreciative smile, his thoughts turn to Felicity's childhood career. And inadvertently to the reason for its abrupt end. What has happened that she chose to end her very promising career in showbusiness and withdraw from the public eye so suddenly?

The news, the articles, even the gossip sites, nobody seemed to have a valid answer as to why she would step away from such a rapidly growing career back then. Her parent's divorce the following year couldn't be a coincidence either. Oliver doesn't need to be an FBI profiler to come to that conclusion, but again, there is no information to go on. The court records of her parent's divorce have been sealed to protect Felicity, a popular minor back then. Shortly after the divorce, Felicity changed her name to her mother's maiden name and moved with her to California, the father falling out of the picture completely, despite being a steady presence throughout her life up then. And yes, he absolutely checked, first chance he got, the whereabouts of one Noah Kuttler, whose driver's license was currently registered in Seattle, leading a small business of an acting agency.

All in all, for a mere twenty-four years, Felicity Smoak has really lived an utmost unusual and incredible life.

Yet all this information doesn't quench Oliver's curiosity, it just makes him wonder about her even more. He wonders about who she is today, comparing the two images he got to see today – her past and her present – and he finds he is having a hard time uniting the two personalities.

Her nature today is naturally is of a distrusting, guarded person. Definitely more mellow. She's a loner by choice, which is in sharp contrast to her blindingly outgoing character trait witnessed in her old video. _That_ part was not acted. That was pure her, just who she was by nature. She was naturally curious and drawn to technology as we as to people. Which makes her that more intriguing. The wheels in Oliver's head spinning, he wonders about scenarios as to what could have happened to make her suppress that bubbly personality of hers, to withdraw into this guarded version of herself she is today.

People change, they shape with time, hone their traits. Some grow less prominent, some shine through with time. It's a natural process.

But the complete personality turnaround doesn't happen that easily. There must have been a catalyst. One whose possible reason he can't stop thinking about.

So actually, learning about Felicity Smoak hasn't made him less curious about her, it made his curiosity even worse. And as Oliver ponders this, starting his car and driving out of the FBI underground garage, he tells himself his sudden interest and fascination only stems from the line of his work, his natural inquisitiveness.

For the first time in weeks though, when Oliver Queen falls asleep that night, he doesn't see the gruesome images from Slasher's latest crime scene photos. He sees a little bright girl with unruly blond curls and a cheeky smile, pulling a face at the camera. He sees a beautiful young woman with guarded blue eyes and an incredibly warm smile. And he wants to get to know her.

xxx

AN: Share your thoughts, please.:)


	3. Chapter 3

"One grande latte for Felicity!" shouts the barista in a bored voice from behind the counter. He needn't have though, Felicity's already there, her hand greedily grabbing for her hot beverage. It's her first coffee of the day, and she needs it like she needs her next breath.

Quenching her thirst by taking a few hasty gulps, she crosses the café and takes seat at the very last free table right beside the window before resuming drinking the heavenly creamy substance in more moderate sips. She takes her time simply sitting in her spot, inhaling the rich aroma of coffee and letting peoples chatter create a nice backdrop to her silent thoughts. It's a beautiful day. The sun's shining for once, air crisp with chilly autumn air. Her eyes fall shut as she takes a moment, allowing the bright sunlight warm her face through the wide window glass, enjoying _simply being_. Just for a while. A single moment spent enjoying her existence and just not worrying, deliberately _not_ being scared.

It's a luxury that's grown more and more elusive to her these past few months, yet she refuses to succumb to the rabbit hole of hopelessness. And she sure as hell refuses to be intimidated, either by her stalker or by the FBI's utterly useless warnings to stay put until he's caught. Yeah, right. Like there is actually someone out there who cares enough to go looking for the guy. Staying cooped up, living her life hiding from the world, that's not an option. Not her style either. Been there, done that, and she definitely won't stand for it this time around. God knows her mom spent enough money on therapy to drill that particular lesson into her brain and today, Felicity is the single person to make any and all decisions for her own life. Her life, her choice.

And right now, she chooses not to be harassed and intimidated into submission. Never again.

So that's what she does. She deliberately walks out on a Tuesday during lunch hour to grab a cup of coffee from her favorite café around the corner like she usually does every other day, everybody else and their opinions of how she should go about her safety be damned.

A throat clears close by, causing Felicity to jump in her seat with surprise, eyes flying open. The throat-clearing is closely followed by a question delivered in a deep rumble of a voice. "You mind if I join you, Felicity?"

She knows that voice, knows it and yet doesn't know it at all. The apprehension and gentleness of its tone sound unfamiliar and strange, and yet, despite Felicity's displeasure at the realization, she knows she could pick that voice from a crowd.

"I hope it's okay if call you Felicity."

"You know it is, Agent Queen," she replies coolly, straightening in her seat to her full height.

"It's Oliver, please."

_Now he wants to be civil? Well, too damn late._

She rises a single eyebrow at him, glaring pettily in a challenge as her face grows hard upon his sight. "What are you doing here, Agent Queen?"

The man has a nerve, showing his face here after the way he treated her the last time they met.

"I-I stopped by your loft. Mr. Curtis, your colleague. He told me I'd find you here." He is floundering, his eyes looking everywhere but at her, and if Felicity didn't know any better, she'd think Agent Queen was flustered.

"And here I am. So, what can I do for you today, Agent?" She goes for careless disinterest, but internally, she is boiling, her level of frustration with this man rising with alarming speed.

Agent Queen sighs in exasperation. Like he expected her to throw a temper tantrum, and _fuck him_. But then his eyes catch hers and they are surprisingly open and warm, nothing like their calculated aloofness from only a couple of days ago. They hold her gaze even as he asks her again, this time in a pleading tone, "Can I sit down, please?"

His meekness throws her so much she instantly nods, not trusting her voice after looking into his beseeching blues. She is completely taken aback by his sudden change of behavior and despite her better judgement, she is intrigued.

He plops down to a spot across the table, his hands wrapped around his own cup of coffee, eyes studying a dirty spot at the table before finally decidedly settling on her face.

"I am here to tell you that unfortunately, all lab results from the evidence we gathered at your apartment came back negative. There are not fingerprints and no DNA. I am sorry."

Just like that, his newfound softness makes sense; he just wants to let her down delicately. Her heart plummets in her chest and sets like a boulder in her stomach. So that's it.

She deflates in her seat, a whoosh of air leaving her lungs when her back hits the the chair rather forcibly. For a long while, neither talks. She is lost in her thoughts while he's silently studying her, gauging her reaction, as if it's safe to leave her here after delivering his news. It rubs her the wrong way. She steels her spine, gives him a defiant look. If he thinks this little setback will break her, he is sorely mistaken. She fully expects him to rise any moment to his feet and bid his goodbye after making sure she is okay with the news, but he never does and the silence stretches between them, both stubbornly sipping their coffee without another word, seizing each other up.

He's the first to break.

"I am also here to apologize." His voice is still quiet and contrite, eyes suddenly piercing hers in undeniable sincerity and the intensity causes her to blink several times. Of everything she thought the man might say, this was definitely not on her list.

"What are you apologizing for?" she asks not wanting to let him off the hook so easily despite her tone shifting dangerously close to childish petulance. "The fact that you can't find this guy or that you acted like an ass the other day?" Okay, so she's definitely choosing petty over civil. So what? The jerk deserves it and she is done playing games.

To his credit, her words do make him visibly wince, his eyes falling to study his coffee. "Okay, I deserved that," he admits after a while, his eyes seeking hers again. He takes a deep breath before continuing. "I am sorry for the way I acted the other night. I am sorry I came across as unhelpful, arrogant and skeptical. I was projecting my own frustrations on you, which was unprofessional and should never have happened, and I am genuinely sorry for that, Felicity."

She hates that she actually _likes_ what he's saying. As apologies go, this is a really good one. Honestly, she'd never expected Agent Queen to possess the capability to apologize in the first place. Just didn't seem the type. But he's apparently not finished yet.

"It's not that I don't believe you, Felicity. I know for a fact that what you are dealing with is not easy. It must be very frightening, and rightfully so. On top of that, you were also let down by the system. The very system you'd turned for help, and that should never have happened. I want you to know that _this_-" his hand briefly mentions between the two of them, "won't be a repeat of your experience with the police. I promise you that I am taking your case very seriously."

He waits a moment, lets the words sink in. She silently nods again, waits him out.

"Unfortunately-"

_Ah, there it is. _

The elusive 'unfortunately' that negates everything that came before it. She was wondering when it would come to play, since this sounded way too good to be true.

"-there is not much we can go on right now. That said, this is not the end. The bad news is that we will have to wait and see what happens. The ball is in his court, and we will have to wait for his next move."

An involuntary shiver wrecks her frame, followed by a low whine of fear leaving Felicity's lips. Her eyes instantly fall shut with the embarrassment and frustration with her body for letting her fear manifest so openly. But she is. She might play it tough, but she is so very scared.

"I know it's not what you wanted to hear. I wish I could give you more positive news. But that's the crux of the situation. Let me assure you thought, that we'll be waiting. And the guy will eventually slip up. And when he does, I promise you, we will be waiting for him."

She's not looking at Agent Queen anymore. Her index finger plays with her cup, the edge of her nail drawing circles around the rim, copying the spiral of her own thoughts.

His words ring true. It's not what she wanted to hear. Logically though, she knows he's right. The rational portion of her brain understands there's not much else he can do on his end but wait. Which is exactly what has her in knots. The ever present, impotent waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Unable to do anything else about that particular situation, Felicity chooses to concentrate her energy on the other elephant in the room.

"What changed?" she asks Agent Queen rather bluntly. Upon his confused look, she clarifies. "I mean what changed that you suddenly care."

He winces again and yeah, ok, that sounded bad even to her own ears, but that doesn't mean it's not true. Therefore, she doesn't take the words back, for once done with mincing words and always being the politically correct one. The corner of Agent Queen's mouth tugs up nervously, his formidable statue clad in a perfectly fitting suit squirming in the chair as he clears his throat.

"My partner, Agent Diggle, might have alerted me to my inappropriate behavior."

With wonder, Felicity observes color creep up Agent Queen's cheeks, the sight remarkable in its own right. Agent Queen is actually _embarrassed_. The man is human, after all.

"I also read up on you. Went over your case."

"Oh," there is nothing much to say to that. They both know he didn't do so the first time around, it was abundantly clear in the way he stumbled through their first interview. Still, for some reason, having him confess he's read up on her this time around makes her own cheeks flush with warmth. She wonders what the FBI's sources say about her. How does she come across on paper? What is she _worth_?

"Can I ask you a question?" she blurts out, teeth nervously chewing on her bottom lip.

Just for a fraction of a second, his eyes fall to her lips before settling on her face once again. "Shoot."

"Why were you so antagonistic and abrasive towards me?"

The question makes him squirm again, eyes boring a hole into the table. It's apparent he's having a hard time speaking his next words, but he soldiers on. "To be truthful with you, Felicity, knowing you were a former child star, I thought you might have called in a favor with my boss to have the FBI solve a simple-" he winces at that "-stalker case. Aside from the fact that I hate to be manipulated, I am currently neck deep in another case, so I thought it a waste of resources back at the time."

Wow. He's bold. She is not yet sure whether she's fully comfortable with that. But she does appreciate the honesty.

"I, uhm. I don't know anybody at the FBI. The request didn't come from my end," she stutters out, for some reason flustered.

"I know that now," he hastens to reassure her. "To be perfectly honest," he says and there is that nervous tick of his again, his fingers disappearing in his hair, tugging frustratedly at the short strands and tousling them in a most delicious way, "Rather than with you, I was more upset with my boss for assigning me a case when she very well knows I need to be fully concentrating on my other one."

His admission makes her more than a little curious. "Why did she choose you then? I mean, specifically you?"

"I don't know. The order came from her superiors, apparently. In fact, it came directly from Director Waller herself," Agent Queen says, his eyes holding hers now.

Felicity's brows rise impossibly at that, because holy frack, the FBI's Director is aware of her case?

"But…why?" she asks, her voice feeble.

"I don't know," answers Agent Queen truthfully. "You can see now why I was under the impression it was a matter of calling in favors and pulling of strings backstage."

"I've never even _met_ the Director. Hell, I barely know who is the lead of the FBI as it is," Felicity shakes her head, genuinely puzzled.

"Don't worry about it," Agent Queen says. "It doesn't matter how your case came to the Director's attention. What's important now is your safety and wellbeing until we catch this guy."

And that surprises Felicity even more. Not just his words, but the actual care and conviction he says them with. She sighs.

"I genuinely have no idea who he is," she grumbles into her coffee absentmindedly, her thoughts wandering back to her current unfortunate predicament. "I mean, I haven't been in the public eye for over a decade. I've changed my name, I've moved half the country away and I was not contacted by anybody, publicly or personally, for years about my childhood career. There is only a handful of people who remember Lisy at this point, and even less who know that I am her."

And there it is, the heart of the matter. Her time as Lisy coming back to bite her in the ass. As if she hasn't paid enough already, having her family torn apart.

"About that," Agent Queen says, drawing her attention back, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth now. "I have to admit, you were really talented."

Color rises to her cheeks again. "I don't know about that. I was just a kid with curious mind and a big mouth," she says with an awkward breathy laugh, scrunching up her nose as her fingers come to play with her hair in a nervous gesture not unlike his own.

To her surprise, Agent Queen's mouth stretches into a huge smile. And boy, what a smile it is. "Oh, I think we both know you were more than that. You were smart, bright and funny. Yet kind and compassionate, as a child no less, able to easily captivate the attention of millions." The words just flow out of him, like he's stating a well-known fact, before he catches himself, his mouth closing shut.

Her own falls open with his words. It's been years since she's heard praise like that. She would lie if she said she didn't appreciate it, even though it makes her feel her more than a little self-conscious.

"Yeah, well. That was a long time ago," she utters at last. She never expects his next words.

"You know, awkward as it is to admit, I've never heard of you before," Agent Queen says with a small, sheepish smile. "I did the math. By the time you started your own show, I just enlisted to the army, so I had obviously other things on my mind than pop culture, but you were obviously quite the hit back then. I'm sorry," he adds on an afterthought, like he genuinely feels ashamed for not knowing her childhood alter ego.

"Why on earth would you be sorry?"

He just shrugs. What he doesn't get is that for Felicity, it's actually a nice experience to meet someone who doesn't have a reference to her in that regard. Who doesn't constantly draw to their own nostalgic childhood memories when talking to her. Who doesn't observe how very different she is now to her alter ego, or who doesn't pester her about the reason of why she stopped. For some reason, it makes her feel more at ease with Agent Queen.

"You were in the army?"

He gives her a tight nod. "Yes. Rotated a couple of tours in Afghanistan, later Iraq. Came home from the last one, directly signed up for the Academy at Quantico. Been with the FBI since."

"Wow. I mean…" truth is, she never would have pegged him for a soldier. And that is saying a lot, since she works with soldiers on a regular basis. He looks surprisingly collected and psychologically intact for someone who faced the horrors of war. Which is, sadly, not an experience she makes too often.

"Thank you for your service," she says the first thing to come to her mind, somewhat at a loss. Because that's what you are supposed to say, right?

"Thank you. I also read up on your company. Biomechanics, right? You do quite a lot of pro bono work for army vets as I understand, offering custom made bio-tech prosthetics. That's quite remarkable. So it should be me, in fact, thanking _you_ on behalf of all of our troops." His voice is deep and warm as he says it, its volume dropping for her ears only, and it feels scandalously intimate in such a public setting, sending a shiver run down Felicity's spine and her heart racing. He holds her gaze and it's her time to blush furiously, yet her eyes won't drop from his intense stare.

Agent Queen's jacket vibrates at that moment, making him jerk in his seat, eyes falling away from her and breaking their hold over her, thank God.

She is not the only one affected by their shared moment though, Felicity thinks, noticing his fingers slightly trembling as he retrieves his phone from the inside pocket of his jacket. Quickly scanning the screen, she watches, mesmerized, as a quick yet brilliant smile stretches across his lips, his whole face coming alight.

"Work?" she asks casually, knowing fully well that suchasmile has nothing to do with work. And oh God, is she fishing? What's wrong with her? That absolutely none of her damn business who the broody Agent hangs up with at his leisure. Thirty minutes ago, she couldn't stand the thought of him, and now her ovaries are in overdrive because he's offered a few nice words to her? She really is pathetic, if that's all it takes for her to redeem oneself.

"No. My sister, actually," Agent Queen answers casually after a moment, unaware of her inner struggle and subsequent mortification when she realizes how that particular piece of information settles something inside of her. Before she can dissect that particular feeling though, Agent Queen glances to his watch with a sigh.

"Unfortunately, I have to go. It was nice seeing you again, Felicity. Please don't hesitate and call if your stalker contacts you again, or whenever something else pops up. Even if it's just…an odd feeling. Don't question it, just call, okay? Better safe than sorry," he instructs and this time, she can see he means it.

"I will. Thank you, Ag-, I mean, Oliver."

His pleased responding grin tells her it was a good call using the first name basis. He quickly collects his empty cup and with a last nod in Felicity's direction exits the café.

Felicity stays in her spot for quite some time, processing the whole encounter.

Nothing has resolved. She is knee-deep in the same shit as yesterday. But she doesn't feel so isolated and alone in said shit anymore.

xxx

What wakes him is the shrill ringing of his phone dancing with vibration on his bedside table, the accompanying flashlight hurting his eyes. His hand, still heavy with sleep, shoots up and snatches the offending peace of technology off the table, thumb pressing mute. The room falls blessedly silent and Oliver rolls onto his back, taking a few deep breaths to calm his rapidly beating heart.

He's used to this kind of wake-up calls. Doesn't mean he has to like them. His eyes wander to the bedside clock and fuck, the sight makes him groan.

_4:24 am_

Which means he's gotten no more than three hours of sleep. Fuck, he really needs more sleep.

The phone rings again and in his befuddled state, he realizes only too late that instead of taking the previous call, he's just declined it.

"Agent Queen," he barks upon accepting it this time around, tiredly laying his forearm across his face.

"Oliver, it's Digg. We've got another one."

All remnants of sleep are instantly gone as Oliver shoots straight up from the bed, stumbling on his fallen covers as he makes a hasty beeline for the bathroom. "Give me the address. I'll be there as soon as possible."

xxx

She still has her wallet on her. That's how they find out her name and the address of a nearby club she worked at. Jody Snider, twenty-four years of age. A burlesque dancer, returning home from her nightshift. So damn young. And already dead.

Oliver examines the body, looks into the empty greyish eyes gazing into nothingness, her body stretched onto a ground in a bloody heap of cut flesh and run out guts. It's a gory sight, one of the worst Oliver has ever seen in his career, which is definitely saying something. Their killer is growing bolder, and more vicious. Oliver just hopes that means also cockier. Cocky and careless perps tend to make more mistakes.

Part of Oliver's vision of the body is currently blocked by the Coroner, crouched close to Jody's body and cataloguing all her injuries to a clipboard with a body chart, collecting evidence before she can be moved to his van and down to the city's morgue for closer examination and autopsy. But even without its detailed findings, both men know the truth.

"It's him," Mike says. He's one of the most experienced Coroners Oliver has ever worked with. A man in his fifties, a father of three with two decades of experience working for the FBI. Oliver fully trusts him, which makes hearing what he has to say that much harder. "The COD and MO appear to be the same as with the other ones. Again, it was not sexually motivated." He motivates to her state of clothing, the zipper Jody's skinny jeans tightly shut. "The manner of stabbing and her wounds are consistent with the Slasher's technique. Which is basically…wildly stabbing the victim until they bleed out. I will know more when I get her to the morgue, but knowing all we know so far, I'd bet lunch on it."

Oliver's eyes fall shut despite the fact that he's already somehow known. One look at Jodie's massacred body, he just knew. Still, hearing it confirmed is another matter. Another girl dead. Another family ruined. Oliver sends a silent prayer to whatever deity is out there, please, let there be something to work with this time.

Mike is carefully going over the victim again, cataloguing and putting down all he sees onto his clipboard. "I heard there was another one," he says casually, finally done with his close observation and turning towards Oliver as he comes to stand next to him again, putting his reading glasses back into his coat's pocket.

Oliver nods, extracting a transparent evidence bag from his own pocket and showing it to Mike, who only shakes his head. "That's one twisted son of a bitch. You still have no idea what's the connection?"

"Nope. But it's already the fourth one and an exact match," Oliver admits. "One of these always found with each victim."

"My son used to play with those when he was younger," Mike observes. "But they've been off the market for years now. I wonder where he even gets those. Must have a stash of them or something."

And doesn't Oliver know that only too well? He's checked every online as well as real store in the city still selling those before moving on to sift through Ebay auctions and Craigslists that still offered the piece of junk to nostalgic collectors, but to no success.

Mike shakes his head. "Poor girl. Let me know when you are done here so I can have my people transfer her to the morgue."

Oliver nods, his eyes falling once again to Jody's lifeless body. A girl who's only a couple of years older than his own sister and whose life has ended before it could truly begin only because a sick bastard playing God had decided her time was up.

She's actually clothed quite moderately, considering her line of work. A simple pair of jeans, a long-sleeved dark sweater and a leather jacket on top of it. A long, violently bleached mane of hair is spilled around her head in a shiny halo, despite her darker roots already showing, her gently freckled face ashen with the blood loss and the horror of her last moments alive.

xxx

It's a long day. Oliver spends it gathering information about the victim and taking testimonies, talking with potential witnesses as well as Jody's friends and co-workers.

From what he has found out, Jody's moved to town only a couple of months previously, trying to start an acting career and securing the necessary funds by dancing until the time came for her to be discovered. That's what her co-worker Cindy, also a burlesque dancer with violently red hair, tells him while clutching a paper tissue, rocking back and forth in her spot in one of their interrogation rooms.

"She was a good girl. She wasn't using or anything," Cindy sniffs between sobs, tears and snot running down her face and ruining her heavy make-up. "She danced only to make ends meet, but she never started anything with the clients and always went home amongst the firsts." Cindy bursts into another bout of tears, desperately sobbing. "She was a good kid, she didn't deserve to die like that!"

Oliver can't argue with that. Pressing another tissue into Cindy's hands, he collects his notes, thanks her and leaves the room. No matter their life, nobody deserves to be murdered and left out bleeding out behind a dumpster like yesterday's trash. And he will get justice for Jody, just as he will for Amanda, Susan and Jane along with their families. He will get this sick son-of-a-bitch off the streets once and for all, even if it's the last thing he does.

xxx

His afternoon is spend gathering information about the man who originally stumbled upon Jody's lifeless body in the alley and called the murder in, but his alibi checks out and he turns out to be just a man suffering by insomnia regularly walking his dog at night when he can't sleep.

Later in the day, he draws the shorter stick with Diggle and has the gut-wrenching 'pleasure' of calling Jody's family back in Virginia to let them know their daughter was never coming home again. Slamming the receiver with exceeding force back to its cradle after finishing the call does nothing to mitigate the rage rising inside of him.

He calls Mike at the morgue, but he's still busy with the autopsy and has nothing new to report, so Oliver proceeds to call the lab again, inquiring after the gathered evidence, because something just _has to _pan out.

"Nothing yet, Agent Queen. Yes, I will _definitely_ inform you the moment we come across something," the lab technician informs him in a soothing, patient tone, and despite the fact that Oliver knows the machines and tests won't run any quicker with the rising frequency of his calls, he does so repeatedly anyway.

"What about the Tamagotchi? Nothing there?"

The technician lets out a deep sight, as if channeling his inner strength in order to speak calmly with a particularly dense child. "As I told you before, Agent Queen, there is nothing on the Tamagotchi. At least we didn't find anything significant as of yet. There were no batteries inside, so it isn't working. No prints, no DNA. Just the very same model, type and design as the previous ones. Turquoise with little yellow numbers for hours of a clock, plus those black little thingies, those that look like arrows or something, but I am sure you know the design by heart now," the technician raps out in a disinterested voice, knowing Oliver knows all this and repeating it only for the sake of Agent Queen realizing the technician knows it just as well so leave him the fuck alone to do his job.

It's the very peculiar item however, that won't leave Oliver alone. It can't be a coincidence, definitely not finding the very same item on each of their victims for the fourth time in a row. It's, in fact, very deliberate and it's the only way their killer has yet communicated with them. It's what irrevocably links all of their victims together, a message left behind to unravel, yet it's such a random and queer object that Oliver doesn't know where to even start looking for what it could possibly mean.

He can feel a headache beginning at the base of his skull, so he takes two Advils and washes them down with his umpteenth cup of coffee that day before ploughs through the piles of case files once again, looking for something – anything – to catch his attention as he waits for Mike's definitive autopsy results. It's late in the night when Mike faxes his findings and even later when Oliver is done sifting through them, discovering – once again – nothing out of the ordinary, outside that another young girl was murdered by the hands of the Star City Slayer and the fact that they have nothing to show for it.

xxx

_He nearly shakes with excitement as he slips into her building in what he calls his 'pizza-guy uniform', nodding from underneath his red cap to the old man sitting behind the reception desk and watching some Spanish telenovela._

_It didn't take him too long to figure out that a delivery uniform can get you literally anywhere. People send and receive things all the time, having grown lazy enough to order just about anything – along with food or services – right to their doorsteps at any given time of day. So a delivery guy is as inconspicuous as they get._

_His fingers clutch the pizza boxes but he doesn't wait for the elevator, walking directly to the stairs instead and running up two at a time in his excitement._

_Walking into her corridor, he feels a jolt of reverence as her door draws closer. It's quiet, a little after midnight, so most of the patrons in the building are already in their beds, trying to catch a good night's sleep. Not her though. Not his Lisy. He's spent the last half an hour observing her from his spot at the rooftop across the street as she sat at her kitchen counter and madly typed away at her computer, lost in her work. He loves how dedicated she gets._

_Stopping outside her door, he quickly takes out his leather gloves, pulls them on and then opens the bottom pizza box, extracting a small package from inside and carefully laying it at her doormat that says 'Geeks welcome'. _

_A warm smile graces his lips. She's so damn cute. He loves her so much, he honestly doesn't know what to do with all of the feelings._

_Rising to his full height again, he caresses her door with one gloved hand before lifting the boxes from the floor. Preparing to make a quick dash for it, he rings her bell and bolts._


	4. Chapter 4

She's sitting in her favorite armchair, her slightly trembling hands hugging the mug of tea for warmth. It's a useless feat though, because Felicity knows the coldness comes from inside, and no amount of hot beverages she'll drink or blankets she'll crawl under will make her feel warm.

The package lays in front of her on the coffee table, innocent and ominous both. There is no address this time, no stamp, and the reason for that is the same reason Felicity currently can't bring the tremors in her hands under control.

On the table right next to the package rests her laptop, its screen paused on a black and white video footage of her stalker ringing at her door from less than an hour ago.

Her stalker. Who was here, right outside the door and ringing her buzzer. Dressed as a pizza guy and delivering one of his sick packages in person this time.

His audacity and the growing boldness combined with the ill feeling of her privacy being violated in a most horrendous way makes Felicity physically nauseous. And she hasn't even opened the damn package yet.

She is glad now for having listened to Curtis and installing the video camera outside her door just a couple of days ago. The building manager will give her hell once he finds out – and probably serve her with a juicy lawsuit for installing it on her own without getting the building's management approval first. Felicity doesn't particularly care at the moment. He doesn't know for now – the tiny gadget is easily concealed by the corridor's lamp – and she will deal with the fallout later. Right now, she has bigger fish to fry.

The video quality is good, but her Stalker's identity is well concealed by a cap and the high collar of his delivery jacket, as well as the unfavorable angle of the camera poised too high. The only thing deducible from the feed is that he's of smaller build; his shoulders not too broad and his stature on the rather shorter side.

However, there is not a single image that alludes to his identity. And boy has she checked the footage for any shots of his face. In fact, she's checked every single grainy image and then checked again. Sadly, identification is out of the question, but it's not been completely for naught, because finally, there's true evidence that Felicity's not been imagining things. That there indeed is a person out there leaving creepy messages for her and wanting to get to her. It's not a prank.

Oh God, how she wishes it was just some stupid prank.

Her eyes fall to the package again. It's small, a tiny bubble envelope with only the words _For Lisy _scribbled on its front in the same handwriting she recognizes from the bloody note.

Felicity eyes the package as if it'll explode any moment, then takes a deep breath. There is no way around it. She has to open it. It's not that she really _has to_. She could always call the FBI, have either Agent Queen or Agent Diggle examine its contents for her, but the package is addressed to _her_, so it feels like her responsibility to personally see what's inside.

She puts on a pair of disposable gloves she uses when occasionally working with chemicals or scrubbing her bathroom, then takes the package (that's slightly heavier to contain just a note or a letter) into her quivering hands. Quickly tearing it open on its side like it's a particularly painful band aid, she proceeds with emptying its contents onto the table.

Once again, the package harbors a note and a piece of jewelry hanging from a golden chain. It's a tiny, heart-shaped golden locket with a delicately engraved design on its front of a bird, its wings outstretched as it's about to fly away. Yet that's not what instantly draws Felicity's attention. It's the tiny, rusty spatters staining the metal, leaving no doubt to Felicity as to what they are.

Her stomach rolls, but she forces the bile back, her gloved fingers picking up the accompanying note.

_She was nothing but an impostor. They may try to imitate you as much as they want, but there is only one original, and I won't be fooled._

xxx

Oliver is beyond tired. He hasn't slept in over twenty-four hours. It's closer to morning than night and he wants nothing but to take a hot shower and catch a couple hours of sleep until the whole circle starts again. He is no stranger to going long hours – sometimes days even – without sleep, but he knows it can take its toll, blunting the edges of his attention and dulling the sharpness of his senses. And he desperately needs to stay sharp now.

He has just shut his car door and taken the couple steps towards the elevator in his building's underground parking garage when the phone vibrates in his pocket.

Sighing deeply, he extracts the offending device, his face scrunching up at the unknown caller ID while using his other hand to press the elevator's call button. This better be good.

"Agent Queen speaking," he offers tiredly.

There is a moment of silence at the other end of the line, then there's a sharp intake of breath. "Agent Queen? It's Felicity Smoak. I am sorry to call you in the middle of the night."

She sounds funny, nervous, and it sends a chill down his spine, his posture growing instantly ramrod straight. "Felicity, of course. No problem. Is everything alright?" There is another silent moment, just a fraction of a second, but it makes his gut tighten with worry. Without conscious thought, Oliver turns away from the elevator, his feet automatically taking him back to his car.

"No. I mean, yes. I mean-" she gives a tiny nervous laugh that makes the hair at the back of his neck stand, "I got another package tonight," she utters in a silent tone and he has to strain his ears to hear her. "And he delivered it personally this time. He came to my door, rung the bell and left. I've got camera footage."

Already opening his car again, Oliver freezes for just a fraction of a second before quickly slipping behind the wheel. "Felicity, I am starting my car as we speak. Don't leave your apartment and don't let anybody in, no matter what. I'll be there in about thirty minutes, okay?"

There is heavy breathing on the other end and he can tell she's battling with something else to say, but then she only utters a quiet, disheartened, "Okay."

He is there in twenty.

He calls her from the lobby to let her know to expect him. Crossing the rather big space, his eyes fall to the disinterested doorman – not the same one as the other day – whose body might be facing Oliver but whose eyes are otherwise completely glued to a tv in the corner of his station. Frowning and forcing himself to stay calm, Oliver passes him, determined to have a chat with this guy about his utter lack of usefulness. But not now. Not until he makes sure she's alright.

He hastens to her floor and knocks, eyes scanning the hallway while he waits for her to answer her door. He wouldn't have spotted it if he hasn't directly looked for it, a tiny camera partially hidden behind the corridor's lamp in the upper right corner. He has to say, he is rather impressed by the sly move and makes a note to compliment Felicity on her thinking.

"Agent Queen," she greets him apprehensively after opening the door, letting him slip inside.

"It's Oliver, Felicity," he reminds her gently. She barely nods, but her eyes won't meet his. She's wearing nothing but a cotton pajama pants with a cute print of tiny ice-cream cones and a simple ivory spaghetti strap camisole. There is a shabby wrap around her shoulders and she's clutching its ends to her chest, but even that doesn't stop the tiny tremors and goosebumps visibly erupting across the skin of her arms. There's no doubt that Felicity Smoak is rattled, and it puts Oliver on edge.

"Thank you for coming. I know the time is rather inconvenient-"

"Felicity, please," he stops her right there. "Don't worry about it. I am glad you called."

He gets another small nod and a weak smile that doesn't reach her eyes, hands nervously twisting the ends of her wrap as she chews on her bottom lip. Her face is free of any makeup and her feet are bare. She looks chilled, vulnerable and heartachingly young.

"Why don't we sit down, Felicity?" Oliver suggests and she gives a more enthusiastic nod this time, inviting him into her sitting room with a silent gesture of her hand.

"Of course, how rude of me. Please come sit down." When she finally, tentatively, meets his eyes, Oliver offers her what he hopes is a reassuring smile.

"Do you want coffee? I know I need one," Felicity says. "Not that it's the first one of today, let me assure you. I've lost count. But coffee helps. It's a way to occupy my hands when my mind goes-" she rises her hands, tightening and opening her fists in a gesture of an explosion, her face scrunching in a _whooshing_ sound, and despite the grave circumstances, Oliver has a hard time holding an impassive face at that.

"Coffee would be great, thank you."

He sits down onto one of her sofas, silently observing her as she busies herself in the kitchen, fixing them both a cup of coffee. "I am sorry to drag you so early from bed," she apologizes again. "Sugar? Milk?"

"Neither," Oliver answers politely, rubbing his hands together as he waits for her. "And you didn't drag me from bed. I was coming home from work, actually."

It's not the right thing to say, apparently, because her movements still and eyes grow huge. She cocks her head to the side as if she's trying to figure him out. "Agent Diggle was not kidding when he said you were a dedicated worker."

Her comment surprises him. What surprises him even more is how pleasing her acknowledgment feels and Oliver is momentarily eternally glad for working hard on perfecting his poker face over years. He can't help a small self-conscious cough escaping his throat, though.

"I just…there is this case I am currently working on. It's…time consuming."

"No shit," Felicity mumbles under her breath, picking the two steaming cups with both hands and bringing them over to the sitting room, offering him the one in her right hand. The words printed at the cup make the corners of his mouth lift in an amused smile.

_NAS·TY WO·MAN_

_noun_

_1.a confident, independent female who gets sh*t done_

He takes a couple of sips, then takes her lead and lowers the cup to the table concentrating back on her.

"About the reason why I robbed you of your well-deserved rest," she starts, handing him a pair of disposable gloves and causing his face to grown instantly serious again. Her easy, natural hospitality almost made him forget that this was in fact, not a social visit. He pulls the gloves on, acknowledging her professional approach with a nod of his head.

"I got another note with a piece of jewelry," she says, pulling on a single glove herself before offering him the note first. He reads it and his stomach churns. There is something deeply disturbing about the words this time, even more than the obvious creep-out factor. Who was _she_ and why does the stalker talk about her in the past sense?

Oliver clears his throat, his mind working in overdrive. "You said on the phone that he delivered it in person? That you have it on camera?"

"Yeah," Felicity says and Oliver is surprised to see her blush. "I installed a camera into the corridor outside my door. My landlord doesn't know about it. I'd need approval of the building's management and that could take weeks, if not months."

That explains her obvious discomfort, but Oliver hastens to assure her. "I don't care about what your landlord or his opinions on this. You are in immediate danger, you made a good decision." That seems to settle her apprehension somewhat.

"Unfortunately, the footage doesn't give us much to go on," she sighs, clicking a few keys on her laptop's keyboard and the device lights to life, immediately showing a black and white footage of Felicity's hallway.

Oliver watches carefully, then asks her to play it again. She is right, there is not much to go on in the sense of personal identification. But it still speaks a great deal about her Stalker. He's grown bold and it's not a case of an infatuated obsession from afar anymore. The man was _here_, inside her building and outside her very door, in the middle of the night no less and leaving her a package. Which is beyond disturbing.

His eyes cut to Felicity. She's chewing on her lip again, observing him, gauging his reaction. He clears his throat. "I will need a copy of the footage."

"Of course."

"Maybe some of our technicians can pull something else from it," he says, but a mere look at this tells him enough to know that the chances of that happening are slim, if not directly non-existent. It's standard procedure, thought.

"I understand. I'll make you a copy to a thumb drive."

"I appreciate it. Can you show me the item that came in the package with the note?"

"Oh right, of course." Her still gloved hand reaches to the table and she picks up a delicate golden chain with a small pendant hanging from it. In a by now well-practiced move, Oliver extract an evidence sack from his messenger bag, carefully putting the note inside. He keeps the bag open for Felicity to put in the piece of jewelry next, sealing the bag before rising it to his eyes and taking a closer look at the tiny golden item.

That's when his breath stills in his chest.

The pendant on the chain is, in fact, a heart-shaped locket, engraved with a delicate bird pattern. It's such a distinctive piece of jewelry that he would recognize it in a heartbeat despite never actually laying eyes on it himself.

Oliver Queen doesn't believe in coincidences. But when he gazes at the locket, instantly knowing what it means, he wishes he was sorely mistaken. In fact, he wishes this to be just one giant cosmic fucked up coincidence.

"Agent Queen?" Felicity questions, but he doesn't respond, his mind racing a mile a minute.

"Oliver?" Felicity calls again, but Oliver doesn't see her face anymore. What he sees is the tear-stained face of a fifty-plus old woman devasted by the loss of her daughter.

"_Mrs. Sweet. Can you tell us anything else that could possibly be of essence? Anything that you might find odd?" What Oliver means is, of course, anything else but the dead body of your daughter currently resting nine feet underground._

_Oliver feels like the biggest jerk for pressing the sobbing woman, a grieving mother, whose wound is even nine months later still so fresh and raw as if it happened only yesterday. But he has to ask. There is a reason he conducts all the interviews himself even after reading the files from the originally taken statements. _

"_The week your daughter disappeared. Did you find anything strange? Did she act differently? Did she mention anything? Maybe a new boyfriend, a strange encounter, anything?" Oliver presses again, pushing the issue. Sometimes, he truly hates his job._

"_Does that Tamagotchi mean anything to you? Are you sure it wasn't Amanda's?"_

"_Y-yes," Mrs. Sweet sobs out. "Mandy never had one, not even as a child, as-as far as I-I know."_

"_Did you-" to woman is sobbing so hard now, the words leaving her lips are choked and garbled, making Oliver's ears strain to distinguish them. "-did you find her locket? Where is Jody's-where is her locket? They never released it to us-" she sniffs._

_Oliver quickly glances at the list of items found on the body and scene he has currently laying in front of him. "I am sorry, Mrs. Sweet, but Amanda wasn't wearing any locket when she was found."_

"_That's-that's not possible," Mrs. Sweet hiccups. "She never took her locket off. Ever. He must have-stolen it."_

_That piques Oliver's interest, his eyes glancing back at the list. Purse, wallet, money, IDs, all was there. Even her earrings and two golden rings. That damn weird Tamagotchi. But no locket._

"_It was a family heirloom. It was her grand- grand- grand-" Mrs. Sweet sobs before she finally pushes the words out, "-grandmothers. A golden, heart-shaped locket with a phoenix on top. Oh my God," the woman completely breaks down. "My baby is dead."_

Oliver gazes at the locket now, sitting in the middle of Felicity Smoak's apartment, knowing for a fact that the item he's holding, this "token of appreciation" she received from her stalker tonight, is in fact the locket Amanda Sweet, Start City Slayer's first victim.

Fuck. _Fuck_!

Felicity Smoak's stalker and the Star City Slayer are one and the same person.

Oliver's case just blew wide open. And yet, as his eyes rise to the unsuspecting woman sitting next to him, silently observing him with trusting curiosity, Oliver feels his heart drop at the realization of how very much the stakes has risen. The man going after Felicity is not merely a stalker, but a sick murderer of young girls who somehow got fixated on _her_.

Now watching her delicate features pull together by apprehension at his shell-shocked reaction, Oliver knows with absolute certainty that he's never wanted to be less right about anything in his life.

However, he first has to make absolutely sure before he can rip this wonderful woman's world apart.

xxx

_His ass is stiff and frozen from the long hours he's been sitting on the roof. He knows better than to still be sitting here. The sun will soon be breaking the horizon and it's never safe to watch her during day. Not that it has stopped him in the past, but he has to be more careful now, the closer he gets to her._

_He watches her the whole night. Watches her first working on her laptop for a while, intently scrutinizing her screen while his package just rests on the table next to her, unopened. It irks him, that whatever she has on her screen appears to be more important than his gift._

_But then she's opening his package, wearing gloves in apparent reverence for his gift, and he loves her that more for it. Then he basks in how she just sits there in silence, admiring the locket, for hours it seems. Her eyes are alternatively switching to the screen of her computer, but they always come back to his gifts. It makes him warm inside._

_She doesn't go to bed. Instead, she drinks several cups of coffee (which he really doesn't like – she drinks way too much coffee, in his opinion), but always when he's sure she's about to retire to bed, she circles back to the coffee table. He could sit here for hours watching her like this._

_He does._

_In the early hours of the day, she appears to finally decide on something and makes a call, only to let a man in a suit – a young and very handsome man – inside her apartment a short time later. That piques his interest. She makes the man coffee and they talk and then she shows him her computer and – what absolutely shocks him – his gifts. _

_For the first time, he feels his temper with her rising. Doesn't she know that his gifts are private? Doesn't she know they are for her and her eyes only?_

_His focus switches to the man and he wonders who he might be. He seems slightly familiar and for a moment, he can't place him, which only makes his frustration rise. But then it hits him with surprising clarity._

_It's the same guy he saw her have coffee the other day. The same guy who she shared a table at the window and a short but what looked like an intense conversation with. He wondered about him then too, but he was not a regular in her life, so he reckoned him for one of her many clients, somebody not worthy of his time._

_But now, seeing the two of them cozily and intimately sharing coffee in the middle of the night while sifting through his latest gifts, it stirs something ugly inside of him. He doesn't know who this man is, but he should know that Lisy is his and his alone. He's chosen her. He's looked for her. He's courted her. She's his._

_When the man finally takes the locket into his hands, the sight of it makes him visibly freeze, probably recognizing the blood spatter for what it is. 'What a sissy,' he thinks. _

_The man is suddenly rising to his feet and whatever they're talking about, it looks like he's not paying her much attention anymore. Prick. He makes a hasty retreat and even from such a distance, he can see how it shakes his Lisy, her eyes staying glued to the door for a long moment after they close behind the man._

_He'd like to stay and watch her some more, but he has no time. He dashes to the ladder, quickly descending down the metal rungs before running down the street to his old Toyota. He makes it just in time to slip behind the wheel when the man exits her building and it's just his luck the man's own car is parked only a couple of vehicles right in front of his own._

_One has to have a little bit of luck, after all._

_He follows the man in his car, always keeping one or two vehicles between them. They drive through the city, weaving in an out of traffic. _

_But then he sees the underground garage the man's car pulls into and his heart nearly stops._

_He can't believe it. _

_Because she wouldn't. _

_He absolutely refuses to believe Lisy would call the FBI on him._

_Which means…they'd gotten to her. He knows they are looking for him, has seen news flashes and read the articles. They just don't get it, what he is doing, why he is doing it. But he is a big boy, he can accept the hide and seek. Let them have their fun. _

_But they just made it personal. They must have found out about their connection somehow and are now trying to use Lisy to get to him through her._

_But he won't stand for that. It's time to up his game._


	5. Chapter 5

To say that Felicity is nervous would be the understatement of the year.

Ever since Agent Queen stumbled from her apartment with a half-assed apology a couple of hours ago, she's been restless. He made her promise to stay inside, not open the door to anybody and call if anything suspicious popped up – anything whatsoever (he was very clear on that one). In return, he promised to contact her in a couple of hours with more information.

The thing is, Felicity isn't stupid. Quite the opposite, in fact.

The moment she saw his shocked face, she just knew the locket meant something to him. He made a feeble excuse about having a suspicion and possible connection to another case, a link that he first needed to confirm thought, but she _knew_. Whatever it was, it wasn't good.

Three hours later – just as she is downing the twelfth cup of coffee that sleepless night – Curtis comes to work at the same time Agent Diggle calls, politely asking her to come to the FBI's SC headquarters in the afternoon to talk about her case. There's been development, Agent Diggle says in his deep voice, but he won't talk about it on the phone.

Which is a clear indicator that whatever it is, it's so, _so_ bad. Another dead giveaway of the seriousness of the situation is the fact that Agent Diggle insists on personally picking her up for the interview.

Felicity has no peace of mind for work that morning. Her hands shake so badly she manages to break two new and very delicate leg joints – "_Prototypes, Felicity! PROTOTYPES!_" Curtis laments, nearly shedding tears – before he banishes her to the couch to get some rest. Despite her nerves and the copious amounts of coffee she's drunk, she falls into a fitful slumber, her sleepless night taking its toll on her. She wakes only when Curtis calls her name at half past two to get ready for her interview.

By the time Agent Diggle picks her up, she's a wreck.

xxx

The conference room Agent Diggle leads her to is nice and…rather large. It's obviously not an interrogation room, which settles Felicity's racing heart at least a tiny bit. However, that short-lived comfort is instantly taken away when she spots the amount of people spilling into the room after them.

Aside from Agent Diggle, there is a woman with short hair, confident stride and a sharp pencil skirt suit. Behind her walk in three other agents Felicity hasn't seen in her life (not that she's seen many FBI agents in her life as it is). And finally, there at the tail of what appears to be a whole entourage is Agent Queen. Felicity's eyes instantly seek him out, instinctively latching onto him for support as the only friendly face in the room she recognizes. He gives her a slight nod of acknowledgment, but other than that, he stays silent, keeping himself back, his face grim and eyes stormy. The woman is the first to make introductions, offering Felicity her hand in a firm handshake.

"Miss Smoak, I am Lyla Michaels, Executive Assistant Director of the Star City branch of the FBI. It's nice meeting you. I only wish it was under better circumstances."

If she weren't already scared shitless, this would be her cue to start losing her marbles. "Agents Queen and Diggle you already know. These are Special Agents Fallon, Twick and Carter, who are members of a specialized task force between us and the SCPD. They will join us today, since what we'll be discussing is highly relevant to their own case."

The men each give her a short nod before walking to the table and sitting down, their faces stern. Not one of them, not even Agent Diggle who keeps standing next to Felicity offers any kind of smile or just a freaking friendly gesture she could really use right now. They are scaring her, the whole lot of them. Who scares her most, however, is Agent Queen, who outside of his initial nod to her now won't look her in the eye, scurrying instead at the opposite side of the table and meekly sitting down. Whatever this is, it's beyond bad. She feels like a piece of life stock ready to be executed.

A slightly hysterical thought hits Felicity upon the sight of no less but six FBI agents, all deliberately sitting down at the opposite side of the long table. A jury at a trial. "Wait, am I in trouble?" she blurts out, incredulous.

"No. By no means, Ms. Smoak. There's just been a development in your case. Please, have a seat," Director Michaels says not unkindly, directing her hand at the nearest seat at Felicity's side of the conference table. Wow, she has a side now, apparently. Doesn't look like the winning side either.

Slowly, Felicity does as she is told, if for nothing else, then only so that her legs don't give out from underneath her.

"Can I offer you anything? A tea? Some coffee?" Director Michaels offers.

Right, coffee. Like that's what she needs right now. "A glass of water would be nice, thank you," Felicity pipes up, nervously wringing her fingers in from of her on top of the table.

Director Michaels nods to Agent Twigs who exits the room only to shortly return with a glass of water and putting it in front of Felicity. She quietly thanks him, directing her eyes at Director Michaels, who is clearly in charge of the whole group.

"Ms. Smoak. I won't hold you in suspense any longer," Director Michaels begins firmly. Yeah. That would definitely be Felicity's preference. Just rip off the band aid right now. "Are you familiar with the case of the Star City Slasher?"

That question slightly throws her. That's definitely not the like of questioning she was expecting, but she is still quick to answer. "Of course, I am familiar with it," she huffs. "Any woman living in this city is familiar with it, knowing who the Slasher is. And by _knowing_ I don't mean knowing as is knowing _who_ he is, just that he is. In general. A sadistic murderer killing young girls." Oh God. She is blabbering. This can't be happening. Color creeps up her cheeks and there is nothing Felicity can do to stop the blush blossoming across her face.

"Right," Director Michaels replies steadily, mercifully ignoring Felicity's babbling. "In the past ten months, the Star City Slasher has murdered four young women in Star City."

"Four?!" Felicity exclaims in horror. "I thought there were just three." Even saying that feels like she should be putting the 'just' in air quotation marks, but she has a feeling that gesture wouldn't sit well with the uptight line of agents sitting in front of her.

"The last victim was found less than forty-eight hours ago. The information that she's the fourth victim of the Slasher was not yet released to the press," Director Michael explains patiently.

"Right. That's…really horrible," Felicity says with a whoosh of air leaving her lungs, her nose scrunching in disgust. Another poor girl murdered. "It's indeed horrendous. But Director Michaels, with all due respect," Felicity straightens her spine, taking a deep breath to ask the question she already knows she won't like the answer to. "I just don't understand what this has to do with me."

Director Michaels gives a curt nod of understanding. "Of course, Miss Smoak. We're getting right to that. The first victim, Amanda Sweet," Director Michaels takes out a glossy photo from the manila folder resting in front of her, pushing it across the table towards Felicity, who gingerly picks it up.

It's a picture of a young girl, about the same age as Felicity herself, with long straight sandy hair, grey eyes and a huge genuine smile directed at the camera. The photo seems like it was taken from a yearbook and magnified and Felicity's stomach drops with that realization.

"Amanda was found dead ten months ago in an alley stabbed to death. Her mother noticed her body was missing an essential piece of jewelry, one that Amanda was wearing at all times."

Felicity's breathing grows heavier, the glossy photo shaking in her trembling hand.

"It was a golden locket."

No. No. _No!_

"Heart-shaped. With a phoenix engraved on the cover," Director Michaels states. Felicity's stomach revolts, but she forces the bile back down her throat, her eyes still glued to Amanda's smiling face steadily growing blurry, Felicity's eyes stinging with sudden tears. "The blood spatter found on the locket your Stalker send to you. It's a match to Amanda's DNA."

Oh God. Her Stalker is the Star City Slasher. This can't be happening. There is no logical explanation for this to be happening.

Felicity tries and fails to wrap her head around it, her mind reeling.

And the locket. Oh God, the locket! She held a dead girl's locket in her hands, a piece of jewelry received by her as a fucking _gift_. What else did she receive that belonged to one of the Slasher's victims? The emerald bracelet? The golden chain? Oh, god.

He killed them. He murdered them all in cold blood and then he stole their possessions from their lifeless bodies, gift-wrapped them and shipped them off to _her_,accompanied by sick love notes. For _months_, Felicity's harbored a box full of murdered girls' memorabilia and she didn't even know.

The realization is beyond sobering. And it's the last blow.

Her stomach rolls again and Felicity has to clamp her mouth shut as bile enters her mouth in earnest. Her mind reels and suddenly, she has a hard time breathing. The conference room spins, making her experience a nasty case of vertigo, her body precariously pitching to one side. Her hands shoot out to clutch the table in front of her for stability, the photo sliding from her grasp, but even so. All she sees is the smiling face of Amanda Sweet swimming in front of her vision.

She's breathing – she thinks – but there is no air reaching her lungs. Her whole body flushes with enormous heat, pads of her fingers growing numb and then starting to tingle as the blood rushes from her extremities to her chest cavity to supply and protect the most vital organs. On a theoretical level, Felicity knows very well what's currently happening to her body, knows the whole process by heart. Yet she still can't do anything to stop it from happening.

Her lungs are seizing, _seizing_, and she can't draw a single breath. She. Can't. Breathe.

"She is hyperventilating," comes Agent Diggle's voice in alarm, but it sounds off and from a great distance.

"Somebody get her a paper bag or something." That's one of the other agents whose name she now can't recall. She can't concentrate on anything right now. Anything but drawing the much needed oxygen back into her failing lungs.

Dark spots are dancing in front of her eyes. She hasn't slept, hasn't eaten, is over-caffeinated and on top of that just discovered that what she thought to be her personal nightmare of the past couple of months just escalated to a whole new level.

He's killed them; all those poor innocent girls. Her eyes sting with tears. She still can't breathe.

"Hey, hey," a soft voice whispers urgently from somewhere next to her, but for the love of her, she can't turn her head towards the source of the sound, her limbs frozen in terror.

"Felicity, look at me," the voice commands. She wants to obey, she truly does. But she _can't_.

Something presses against her cheek, warm and insistent, cradling her stiff and clammy face before turning it so she's now looking directly into Agent Queen's sky blue eyes. He looks concerned. Which he should be, probably. She still can't breathe. She feels like laughing hysterically. And crying at the same time.

She can't do neither.

"You're hyperventilating, Felicity," Agent Queen says calmly. Like it's a normal thing. Like it's not a reason to be terrified. "Do you know what that is? Did you ever have a panic attack before?"

She stiffly nods. God help her, she knows. It's just that her last one's been so damn long ago she's forgotten how crippling and utterly terrorizing they can feel. How utterly defenseless they can make her.

"Okay, good," Agent Queen says and come again? _ . _. In fact, everything is the furthest from _good_ as humanly possible. "You know you have to breathe," he reminds her and dammit, it's not like she's not trying here! "But you are actually taking too many hasty gulps, taking in far too much oxygen than your body currently needs, which is causing your lungs to shut down, taking over to naturally regulate your oxygen intake. So don't try to breathe. Instead, try to hold your breath for just a moment, okay?"

_Is he crazy?_

She knows he's right. But at the same time, he also sounds crazy.

"Felicity," he says her name sharply, urgently. His eyes bore into hers and she lets herself concentrate on him and his words. On his eyes and their little details. Like their shade of blue and the specks of darker color inside his irises. Anything but the crippling fear currently pumping through her body.

"Now hold. Your. Breath."

She does. God help her, she does.

"And now take a very smaaaall-" her drawls out the word, almost a growl, "-tiny breath, yeah, just like that. And now let it out."

Every time her breathing hitches, he redirects her focus back to him, offering gentle yet firm instructions as to what to do. Her arms and feet are still tingling, her chest feeling like it was just doused with hot water, but it's working. Slowly, Felicity starts to breathe again, the black spots slowly but gradually disappearing from her vision.

It takes entirely too long until there is anything breaking through into her consciousness but the calming blue of Agent Queen's eyes and his deep voice urging her to breathe. It takes even longer for her tunnel vision to fade and the conference room to finally come into focus again and then some more for Felicity to realize – to her utter mortification – that she's just had a full-blown panic attack in front of a room full of FBI agents.

She will never live this one down.

Her eyes cut back to the table, to Director Michaels and the agents, each of them now quietly observing her and waiting her out, some wearing visibly more skeptical looks regarding her sanity than others, before her focus finally returns to Agent Queen's form still crouched next to her chair.

Rivets of sweat are running down her scalp and Felicity can clearly feel some of them disappearing in her hairline and some gliding right down her face mixed with silent tears.

The room is completely silent and Felicity's completely mortified.

"I- I'm sorry," she stutters, her voice shaking.

"Don't be ridiculous," Director Michaels dismissed her apology, producing a box of tissues and pushing them towards Felicity. "I would be concerned if you didn't panic a little at such news."

'_Panic a little._' The woman is very generous in her dismissal, Felicity thinks, hastily wiping her brow with still shaking fingers.

Out of the corner of her eye, she notices Agent Queen remaining staying crouched at her side and observing her very closely with concern. She gives him a nod and the tiniest encouraging smile she's not really feeling and he rises back to his full height, taking a few hasty steps in retreat back to his seat.

Yeah. This isn't awkward at all. _Frack_.

"Drink you water, Felicity," Agent Diggle suggests and she obliges, hastily gulping down the whole glass, the cool liquid doing wonders against her parched throat.

This day can't get any worse.

xxx

Once long ago, Felicity's therapist explained to her the concept of dissociation. The state where your consciousness just mentally checks out in an attempt of your body to deal with and protect against trauma. A coping skill used to separate the person from a traumatic event or memories of the traumatic event in a way to keep one's mind intact.

'_In more simple words, it's a sort of an out-of-body experience,'_ Dr. Kramer explained.

And that's exactly what Felicity experiences when she sits here, in the FBI's conference room, listening to the agents outlining the Slasher case to her. When they break out the photos and share the absolutely horrendous details about how four young girls lost their lives.

Mentally, Felicity 'checks out'. She listens. She takes in and acknowledges the facts. She nods at certain places in the conversation, supplies answers to questions they ask her. But it's not really breaking the surface of her detachment.

Someone else is talking to the agents, some other version of herself while her mind and soul cowers in a part of her brain, crying in fear and licking her wounds and feeling sorry for herself, still trying to come to grasps with what they are saying.

She tries and fails. Because it's just…it's too much.

They think so too, obviously, because after a while, they cut the meeting short, offering to continue tomorrow. She just needs to rest, regroup, try to come to terms with the revelation of today, they tell her compassionately. She needs to 'Sleep on it.'

Right. Sleep is not coming to her anytime soon.

She doesn't know how she says her goodbyes, nor does she remember how she exits the building and gets into the waiting car. She's switched into a mechanical, robotic mode. "Yes," "No," "Thank you," "Sure," "Goodbye".

Put one foot in front of the other, open the car's door, crawl inside, straighten your skirt, strap the seatbelt on, look out the window.

And do _not_ think about the dead girls and their jewelry you've kept hidden in a shoebox at the back of your closet for _months_. Don't think about their blonde hair and light eyes and small build.

_Anything but that_.

Count to a hundred and back. Count again.

"We're here."

Felicity blinks, finally coming to herself like from a doze. She's still gazing out of the window and can now see the car's parked in her own parking garage. Her head turns and it's Agent Queen sitting at the steering wheel, looking at her with something tender in his eyes. Yeah. It's that bad.

"You're home, Felicity."

_Right._

She blinks again, shaking her head slightly to clear the fog that's taken residence inside her mind for the past couple of hours. He must think her a moron; she still hasn't uttered a single word.

"I am going to see you to your door, okay?"

"Okay," she finally whispers. He smiles somewhat sadly at her, then exits the car. She crawls after him and they walk silently towards the elevator.

"You mind if we stop for a moment in the lobby? I need to talk to your doorman for a moment," Agent Queen asks her and she shakes her head. She doesn't mind. She doesn't mind anything right now.

Felicity knows she should pay attention. She should be there next to Agent Queen and listen what he says to Mr. Alvarez. But she just can't muster the energy, feeling like a truck has hit her. Mentally, that's not even so far from the truth. It feels like mere moment when Agent Queen joins her again at the elevators, gently taking her by the elbow and he guiding her back into the car.

Once at her door, it takes Felicity three tries till she manages to push the key into the lock.

"Felicity, wait," Agent Queen calls as she steps through the door on autopilot. She turns, silently waiting him out.

"Are you- are you going to be okay?" he asks. "Do you need me to call somebody for you?"

"Uhm, no, thank you. There is no- there's just Curtis. And I- I don't feel like talking to him right now."

She doesn't feel like talking to anybody really.

Agent Queen nods but fidgets in his spot, obviously contemplating something, and if she weren't that spent, she'd even try to figure out what has him feeling so uncomfortable.

"Do you want some company?" he finally blurts out.

She blinks, surprised by his offer. She regards him for a long moment, then looks back at her dark, empty apartment, suppressing a shiver.

"Yes," her voice nearly breaks on the one word. No good lying to herself; she most definitely doesn't want to be alone with just her thoughts for company tonight.

"Can I come in?"

Even in her still apathetic state, she still finds his question sweet, recognizing it for what it is; respecting her boundaries and leaving the control – _the_ _choice_ – to her. Something the Slasher has taken away from her.

The Slasher.

A chill runs down her spine and suddenly, Felicity can't be quick enough to pull Agent Queen into the apartment and shutting the door closed behind them. The lock automatically snaps shut and thank God for that particular feature of her security system.

She's safe.

She draws her first free breath of the day.

xxx

"Do you want some coffee?" Even as the question leaves her lips, Felicity winces. Under other circumstances, it would make Oliver smile, because the amount of coffee both of them surely drunk today would suffice for a whole college studying group.

"No thank you," he replies steadily, still standing in the foyer with her. She looks a little lost as to what to do.

"Look, we don't need to talk," he hurries to assure her, pushing his hands into his slacks' pockets so she doesn't see his hand twitch from their natural desire to put them around her. She looks so damn lost.

"What are we going to do then?" Felicity asks in a small voice. She looks heartbreakingly vulnerable in that moment.

He shrugs, wanting to put her at ease. He is here to make it easier, not harder on her, after all. "You can do whatever you'd like, Felicity. Do whatever you'd do if I wasn't here. Take a shower or a nap. Watch some tv, eat some dinner. Work. Do whatever suits you."

She narrows eyes in suspicion, observing him for a long while. As if there's a catch to him being so nice to her. It stings sharper than he'd like to admit.

"Don't you have to be somewhere?" she finally asks.

He tries to appear nonchalant, but he feels his cheeks betray him as they grow warm as he clears his throat. "Actually, you are right. I was supposed to meet my sister tonight. But to be perfectly honest with you, Felicity, I am in no state of mind for a social visit after today's events." That's true. It's also true that he absolutely has to make sure she's okay before he leaves here tonight.

"Okay," she utters in a small voice, twisting her fingers in front of her body. "Thank you."

"No need to thank me." _God, please don't thank me._

"Would you mind if I went to take a shower?" she asks nervously, and his mind instantly winds back to her panic attack and the long moments of utter helplessness that filled his heart as she gasped for breath in terror.

So right now, Oliver is grateful for small favors. Like the fact that she's obviously feeling safe enough to take a shower with him in her apartment.

"Of course not. Would you mind if I watched some tv?"

"Uhm, no. Knock yourself out," she says before turning and tiredly walking up the stairs to her private area.

His tv request is more for her benefit that his; to put some sense of normalcy back into her life. So when she comes down the stairs fresh from her shower with a little more vigor in her step a couple of minutes later, Oliver is already slouched on her couch, some baseball game quietly playing in the background. He tries to look casual in his spot, even though he spent the past minutes snooping through her apartment controlling the safety of her closed windows and resistance of door system.

Looking up at her now, Oliver does everything in his power not to stare by the sight she makes; domestic and casual, a tender vulnerability but also a fair dose of resolution shining in her blue eyes. The sight takes his breath away.

It's exactly that moment when his traitorous stomach grumbles. Loudly. Which causes her to let out a small chuckle in return.

"You hungry?" she asks cheekily, her eyes regaining some of their spark.

"A little," he admits.

"I guess I should eat something too. I can order something, if that's alright with you," she offers.

"Sure."

"Would you like some pi-Nope, not pizza," she immediately puts a halt to that train of thought as she bites her lip, _hard_, eyes losing its spark and for a moment, he's confused, until it suddenly hits him.

Her stalker – fuck – the _Slasher_, dressed as a pizza guy while delivering his latest package.

"We don't have to order," he suggests nonchalantly, giving her a way out, but she recovers quickly, shoulders set with determination.

"How about Indian? I could really go for some Butter Chicken right about now and there is a great little Indian place around the corner," she suggests.

"I do like good Indian," Oliver assents, offering a gentle smile.

"I like Indian too," Felicity says, returning the gesture as her pink lips stretches across her face in a radiant smile of her own and he feels like the king of the world for putting it there.

They sit in her living room, pretending watching tv while both being lost to their own thoughts. And maybe Oliver should be at the office. Maybe he should work on the new information uncovered today. But for some reason, this right here, making sure she's okay, feels more important than any damn report he's ever read.

When their food arrives an hour later, Oliver makes sure to be the one to open the door and check out the delivery guy, no doubt making the young man with olive skin slightly nervous with all of Oliver's personal inquiries, for which Oliver's not sorry in the slightest.

Finally shutting the door at the deliver guy, his eyes are met with the sight of Felicity standing right behind the door, an utterly amused smile playing over her lips.

"Poor Rashid. He probably thinks you are my new jealous boyfriend," she says with a soft laugh, her eyes dancing with mirth. For some reason, that doesn't sound half so bad to Oliver, but he keeps his mouth shut.

They eat and talk a little, but they painstakingly skirt anything remotely regarding the Slasher case. By ten pm, Felicity's visibly dead on her feet. Oliver knows he is. They sit side by side on her couch, the tv playing silently in the background, and before Oliver knows what's happening, his eyes are drooping, the weight of the last few days finally catching up to him, sleep creeping up on him before he can consciously stop himself from falling asleep.

He wakes to the feel of soft hair tickling his neck and chin.

Disoriented, Oliver blinks for several times, realizing only too late he's fallen asleep on Felicity Smoak's couch. And yeah, it's unprofessional as hell, but cut him some slack, he hasn't slept in two days.

As he regains more awareness, he shifts, feeling a heavy weight against his side. His eyes cut down, heart stopping at the sight of Felicity's sleeping form tucked against his side, head resting against the crook of his neck. Even more shocking to Oliver is the warm feeling spreading across his chest at having her so close, so intimately and yet innocently pressed against him.

It's exactly that extremely inappropriate thought that propels him into action. She doesn't even stir as he maneuvers from underneath her and lowers her body to lay fully on the couch, tucking her in with a blanket he snaps from the nearby armchair. With one last look at her sleeping safety and soundly at her couch, Oliver grabs his jacket and quietly lets himself out from her apartment.


	6. Chapter 6

Felicity is gradually woken by rays of sunshine tickling her face. Groaning, she instinctively turns and pushes her face against the pillow, her mind still heavily entangled and trapped in unfinished dreams.

Neither here nor there, bits and pieces of her dreams swim in front of her vision in no particular order, some making more sense than others. A picture of a rust-speckled locket with the face of a young girl engraved on its front. The image zooms out and the heart-shaped piece of jewelry is now hanging from the neck of a disfigured female body wearing protheses for arms, laying lifelessly in the back of an alley. And as Felicity touches her, as she touches the corpse in hopes of finding a pulse despite knowing it must be long gone, the body's eyes snap open, one prosthetic hand snatching Felicity's wrist in a bruising grip. She fights back but the living corpse's grip in brutal, pulling her ever closer and leaving Felicity no choice but to gaze into the corpse's face, its features becoming more detailed and clearer the closer she crouches. And suddenly she's looking into her own eyes reflected back at her from her sinewy, bloodless face.

Felicity cries out and rolls to her back with a gasp, throwing one shaky arm across her face to cover her eyes.

_God. _

The picture painted by her dream is horrible, yet feels so very, very real. Just thinking about it makes her feel queasy. She lies there, taking deep breaths, trying to calm her trashing heart. It's when she remembers another dream she had tonight. Where there was nothing but a vast blue ocean, its waves crashing against the shore as she stood on the shore, toes buried in warm sand. It was pure calmness, the waves crashing back and forth, back and forth in a rhythmic, soothing manner, the water washing over her ankles in sync with her own breathing. Like the ocean itself whispered to her to calm down, to breathe. It takes her a long time to wrap her mind around that one, to distinguish dream from reality and realize this was also just a very vivid dream.

Forcing her eyes to open at last, she's momentarily surprised not to be in her own bed upstairs but on the couch downstairs. She turns and rolls her head on her shoulders, trying to work out the kinks in her neck, and her eyes fall onto the partly finished cartons of Indian food littering the coffee table.

That's when it hits her, the whole disaster that was yesterday. The consultation at the FBI building, the reveal her stalker and the Start City Slasher are one and the same person. And Oliver Queen, guiding her through a mortifying panic attack in a room full of FBI agents before driving her home and seeing her to her door, being extremely nice and understanding while keeping her company late into the night, by which time she must have dozed off.

Felicity would have been embarrassed by the memory if not for the knowledge that she sorely needed company last night. She is not beyond accepting help when it's being offered. If therapy has taught Felicity one thing, it was that being truthful with herself was a great starting point to getting and keeping your life on the right track. Right now, her life is nowhere near any track, not to mention the right one, and the ugly truth is, that Felicity has no idea how she would have handled last night if Agent Queen was not there to keep her company.

No, not Agent Queen, not anymore. _Oliver_.

Something has definitely changed between them yesterday. It started with the oddly intimate way he guided her through her panic, but what definitely shifted their professional to a personal relationship was the quiet companionship they shared last night. Whatever the reason, to Felicity he's no longer Agent Queen, the cold, detached FBI profiler, but Oliver, an understanding…well, what? Friend is probably too strong a word. They barely know each other. And yet, what he did for her last night would definitely fall into the category of behavior friends do for each other.

Which, _uh-oh_, is really something she doesn't want to dissect right now. Not when she has other, bigger and far more scarier issues to deal with at the moment. Like that a serial killer that's been killing young girl for the past couple of months is apparently fixated on her.

It makes her sick to the stomach. It's not even about herself anymore. She is sick about all those other girls who had to die because they looked like her. Because they were young and blonde and short and light-eyed. She might have been slightly out of it yesterday, but she would have to be blind and stupid not to notice the physical similarities between her and Slasher's victims. And blind nor stupid, Felicity was not.

Rising from the couch, she notices her favorite blanket slip to the ground. Only once lifting it does she realize she was not the one to pull it across herself last night. Which means it had to be Oliver who covered her with it. Appreciative of his thoughtful gesture, it's a tiny ray of sunshine to bring warmth to her otherwise chilled body.

Felicity goes about her morning. She puts on coffee, takes another shower just so she has something to do other than sit around and wallow in her misery and self-pity. She's in the middle of scrubbing her teeth when the realization hits her.

_She wants to get this sick son of a bitch. _

She doesn't merely want him to get caught, no, she wants to play an active part in the act of catching him. She has no desire sitting ducks and wait for him to come for her, she wants to be the one to come for _him_,andshewants to have a say in the how and when. In nothing else then just so at the very least there is something good coming from her connection to the Slasher. If maybe she can help the FBI catch the monster who butchers young girls, then all this grief and fear won't be for nothing.

Felicity is not kidding herself. She's still scared shitless for her own wellbeing. She would he stupid if she wasn't. The thought of a sick homicidal serial killer out there thinking about her, _lusting_ after her, all the while possibly targeting herself or another victim, it has her guts twisting in knots and heart quivering with fear. But the idea of doing something useful with this information and contributing to catching him – maybe even in the smallest possible way – it feels like regaining some semblance of power over her own life.

Right now, she is desperate need of having power over her own life once again.

So there must be something about the connection between her and the Slasher, a connection he believes they share. There must be a reason of why _her_ and more importantly, why Lisy. Lisy as in her alter ego and not Felicity, to whom she's grown into. _It's definitely a connection of the past_, she ponders while combing her hair and later too during fixing her first cup of coffee of the day. One that goes back to a time of her life that holds bittersweet memories for her. But she will go back there and dig it out, even if it's the last thing she ever does. Because those girls deserve it. There. Okay.

At least, she's got a plan now.

At nine, Curtis's key scrapes in the lock and the man spills inside, surprised to find her at the kitchen counter hugging a coffee mug while still in her pajamas and deeply lost in thought.

Telling him the truth is one of the hardest things she even had to do, because voicing it to someone so close to her makes it so horrifyingly real.

Felicity notices the exact moment when the whole extent of the truth hits him, his eyebrows rising and eyes growing huge with fear. He is terrified by what she tells him, but there's no way around it, Curtis _needs_ to know. He spends half his days inside this apartment working alongside her and he needs to be made aware of the situation, if for nothing else, then for his own safety.

It takes a while for his shock to subside, but in the end, she has to admit that he takes the news better than could have been expected. He hugs her tight, whispering in her ear how everything is going to be alright, how the FBI's going to catch this sick son of a bitch, making promises he can't possibly know to be able to keep but she knows he means them wholeheartedly and that's what counts.

The two of them spend the late morning brainstorming over the delicious cupcakes Curtis brought from their favorite bakery down the street, trying to come up with enhanced safety measures for the loft as well as Felicity personally. By noon, she doesn't feel so on edge anymore, something she is sure she's got Curtis and his practical, analytical brain to thank for. Once again, Felicity is beyond glad for that fateful afternoon at the campus grounds in her last year when she stumbled and spilled her coffee all over Curtis's new laptop. Admittedly, he's not been her biggest fan at that moment, but they've come a long way since then and the man slowly became not only her colleague, but her best friend.

It's when said friend has just run out to get them some lunch from a nearby deli when Felicity's phone buzzes with a message. Picking up the device, she immediately recognizes the number and her pulse speeds up.

_Hello, Felicity. Me and Agent Diggle would like to talk to you again today. Would it suit you for us to stop by your place around 3 pm to go over some specifics of the case and discuss our next steps? Oliver_

She quickly types her approval, a small smile tugging at her lips at seeing him sign the message with his own name instead of his title.It's pathetic that such a thing brings a smile to her lips at all, but it's probably better than to concentrate on her current predicament and what is yet ahead of her. So she decides to enjoy the small things, like that despite the fact that she's literally fallen asleep on him last night, he hasn't reverted to his old, cold and professional self. Or the fact that there will only be the three of them today, on her own turf, instead of a conference room full of strangers who might witness her break down again. Not to mention how she found all of their attention more than a little overwhelming yesterday.

To occupy herself until three o'clock comes around, she works a little on troubleshooting the few glitches they'd had with their automation software recently, trying to bring a little normalcy to her day. Yet her mind is preoccupied and thoughts scattered all over the place, so in the end, she has to shut her work down for the day. With her current mindset, she'd probably do more damage than good and Curtis would definitely flip this time.

By three in the afternoon, she sitting on her couch waiting around and biting her nails, desperately wishing for her usual fix from her favorite café down the street just so she has something to occupy her jittery hands with. Usually, she'd be walking down the street about now, enjoying the rough autumn breeze and letting the sharp November sun warm her face like she usually does every other day. But today, she doesn't. Because there is serial killer after her. And she might be frustrated and angry, but definitely not suicidal. Even if it sucks to miss out on life like that.

_It's just temporary, Felicity. Just temporary, so get a fucking grip_, she chants over and over. If she could only believe herself.

A couple of minutes later, the door buzzer finally sounds and Curtis checks the peep hole before opening the door to Agents Queen and Diggle. They look as crisp and dapper as ever, which doesn't sit well with Felicity, who chose to forego her usual personal armor combo consisting of a sassy dress, heels and makeup, trading it for simple dark jeans and a short-sleeved sweater with only minimum make-up applied.

That's all forgotten however upon Oliver's greeting, the man offering her a warm smile.

But that's not what Felicity's eyes instantly latch on. It's the to-go cup he's holding and simultaneously offering to her, the logo of her favorite café printed on the side of the cup that causes a huge smile stretch across her lips, eyes filling with unexpected moisture at the simple yet utmost thoughtful gesture.

She snatches the cup from his outstretched hand with an enthusiastic "Thank you," taking a few hasty gulps of the creamy pleasure, which tastes exactly like what she usually orders. She feels her cheeks grow warm and bites her lip to stop the blush she knows is creeping up her face, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she looks at Oliver from underneath her lashes. She could kiss the man and she doesn't even feel sorry about that inappropriate thought.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The smile she graces him with after taking the coffee from his outstretched hand is blinding and worth every minute Oliver spent in the damn long line obstinately ignoring Diggle who was shamelessly smirking at him in that annoyingly knowing way of his.

Truth is, Oliver has just completely blown this woman's world apart. The least he can do is to buy her a decent cup of coffee from a place she currently can't walk to on her own. Well, technically she can, but Oliver would rather chew his arm off than to see her leave her apartment unless absolutely necessary right now. It's everything but safe for her at the moment. Which is such a sobering thought that it instantly sets his mind straight back to the task at hand.

Felicity seems to have the same idea, because she nods to her colleague who instantly makes himself scarce, taking up a position at one of their multiple working stations while Felicity leads Oliver and Diggle to another one on the far end of the room. It consists of a large table and multiple computer units, some currently at work and some not, but otherwise, the space is clean and tidied up to a point where it's obvious it's been prepared for their meeting. They sit down and before anybody has a chance to say anything, Oliver takes initiative, starting with what he hopes will bring a tiny measure of reassurance to Felicity.

"Before we begin, Felicity, I want to start with an apology. With the turmoil that was yesterday, I forgot – and again, I honestly apologize for that – to impart a crucial piece of information to you. Since last night, there is a car parked in front of your building with two plainclothes policemen sitting inside. They are there for your protection and will be on rotating shifts so you'll have a full twenty-four seven security detail until further notice. They will be monitoring your building, and in case the Slasher makes a repeated appearance, they'll apprehend him. They'll also immediately alert us about any possible suspicious activity and they have full authority to intervene if needed," Oliver explains.

From Felicity's expression, it's painfully obvious that the idea of police protection hasn't even crossed her mind. She silently blinks her eyes several times, her plump pink lips shaping into a silent and unbearably sweet little '_Oh_'.

"Also, it's of utmost importance that you leave your apartment only if absolutely necessary at this point of time. All the doormen as well as management have been informed of the matter and instructed on how to proceed to ensure this building's security. Still, try to stay put. However, if there is no way for an important business meeting can be rescheduled, or if you have a pressing doctor's appointment, whatever the reason for which you absolutely have to leave your apartment, I want you to immediately call me or Agent Diggle in sufficient advance so we can inform the patrol downstairs and they can accompany you wherever you go."

"Accompany me?" Felicity squeaks, obviously uncomfortable at the idea. "Like, personally? Like bodyguards?"

"No," Oliver shakes his head. "At this point of time, we don't think the best course of action is to openly state your involvement with the police or the FBI. It might spook the Slasher, might provoke him into further action. Plain and simple, he might flip and lash out, and that's definitely not what we want or need right now. After discussing this at length with our security experts as well superiors, we agreed that twenty-four seven surveillance and protection from a slight distance to be the best course of action right now."

Felicity simply nods at his words, a shadow of understanding crossing her features, and Oliver is relieved to see she understands the reasons behind their uneasy decisions. Provoking the Slasher by openly building a wall of officials between him and Felicity could incite him to lash out and kill another innocent girl, if for nothing else than just out of spite. It's a delicate balance they are working with and Oliver doesn't like the idea of compromising Felicity's safety in any way, but taking everything they know about the Slasher and his profile so far, this was what the task force has agreed upon, and Oliver had no other choice by to acquiesce. He was not one amongst those in favor of such a dubious approach, but quite frankly, he was overruled.

"I know it's rather inconvenient to you, Felicity, but it's for your own protection," he tries to reassure the woman in front of him. "Ensuring your safety while hunting for the Slasher is of highest priority to us," he stresses, his eyes holding her gaze, willing her to believe him. "So please, do follow our instructions and know that we do all in our power to provide you with the protection you deserve."

Felicity takes a moment after he finishes, clearly letting his words sink in before – finally – she visibly relaxes, her shoulders falling with a deep sigh. It's a sight which, in turn, settles Oliver's nerves a great deal. Because despite the covert nature of the security measures, he needs her to know he is _not_ compromising on her safety.

Truth to be told, he's rather impressed by her. Seeing her being able to mentally bounce back so remarkably after yesterday's news is pretty extraordinary. The vacant and lost look she had in her eyes last night will haunt him for a long time.

"Thank you," she says simply, smiling at the both of them. "That's very thoughtful of you and I appreciate it a great deal." There is obviously something else on her mind, because she takes a moment to visibly compose herself, straightening her spine and drawing her body to its full height in her chair.

"There is actually something else I wanted to talk to you about before we start today." There is a determined, almost defiant spark in her eyes and Oliver isn't sure he likes it.

"Alright. Let's hear it," offers Diggle good-naturedly, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement at the obvious fearlessness of the tiny woman in front of them.

"I want in on the case."

There is the longest silence before Oliver finds his voice again. "Come again? What do you mean by you want_ in_ on the case?"

"I mean that I don't want to be a mere witness or informant. I want to be a _consultant_. I want to have access to all of the files you have and know about all the major decisions." She takes a deep breath before continuing, "I think that at this point, it makes sense and could be mutually beneficial if I had all the necessary information, since the Slasher is obviously after me, personally. Therefore, I absolutely need to be in the loop as well."

"I agree," says Diggle just as Oliver starts to say '_Absolutely fucking not'_ in a slightly nicer wording, and he pins Diggle with a glare because _what the fuck, John?_ But the man blatantly ignores him, turning his attention to Felicity instead. "Officially stepping you up as a consultant could very well be arranged."

"John, don't you think promoting Felicity to an official consultant just like that is going a little too far?" Oliver says through gritted teeth, trying to keep his temper in check, even as his eyes burn holes into Diggle, yet the man is infuriatingly unaffected by Oliver's glare.

"You know it's standard procedure, Oliver." Diggle shrugs. "We keep consultants on cases all the time."

"She is a _civilian_," he grits out. _Seriously, does he have to spell it out for him?_ "And a potential target." He is quickly losing his temper, but God, does John realize what kind of position they would be willingly putting her in?

"Her input on this could prove valuable-"

"She is directly in his crosshairs of a psycho serial killer and you want to have her even more involved? Do you have any idea how that could possibly expose her even further?! Lyla would never be okay with that-"

"I know for a fact that my wife would be more than okay-"

"Guys, guys, GUYS! _She _is sitting right here, and _she_ would also like a say in the matter," Felicity proclaim with unexpected sharpness, her disapproving look momentarily shutting them both up.

"As Agent Diggle said, I do believe I could be a great asset. It makes no sense for me to be handled in kid gloves and be withheld possibly invaluable information for solving the case only to protect my _precious feelings,_" she sassily marks the last two words with air quotations too. "Don't worry, I don't plan on getting into your hair, but I am sick and tired of not having all the pieces of the puzzle and as we know now – and trust me, it makes me sick to my stomach just to say out loud – the Slasher case is directly connected to _me_. He is fixated on _me_. So I can't be a simple bystander in the case, I need to be directly involved."

"I agree," Diggle repeats and Oliver could kill him. He tries one pitch at discouraging her, because this…this is just a very, very bad idea. Period.

"You want in on the case? Do you know what that even means, Felicity? There are statements, morgue reports, crime scene photos. Details unbeknownst to the public that are really gory and could possibly be really upsetting to a…civilian."

Felicity scoffs at that, her eyebrows rising and she's clearly not impressed. "So what? You think me too _delicate_ to handle a couple of crime scene photos? It's not like I have to accompany you to crime scenes or to the morgue. What I want is information."

"I don't think it's safe for you…" That's apparently the absolutely worst thing to say.

"Come again?!" And oh boy, now she's really pissed. "How can letting me in on the case be any _less_ safe for me than it is now? I literally have a serial killer breathing down my neck, Oliver! I am not asking you for a favor here. It's my case and _my life_ on the line. It's my choice and my _right_ to know what's going on."

Oliver becomes aware that her voice has officially shifted to a dangerously loud territory, tone uncompromising, and if he was a less trained man, he would flinch with her words. How come she's so _damn_ stubborn? It's infuriating how she won't see reason.

"Oliver," Diggle says quietly. "She has a point." _Oh, but he knows that!_ And that makes it even worse somehow.

"We would need to discuss this with our boss first," Oliver hedges.

"Great, do it then," she says, changing her attitude in a flash and gracing them with a sweet smile that, however, absolutely doesn't leave any room for doubt that she considers this a done deal. "In the meanwhile, let's go over what you know so far and how I figure into this whole mess."

She truly is remarkable. It would probably be a bad move to remark on it right now, though. So Oliver sighs, resigning himself to her stubbornness and Diggle's unhelpfulness and pulls out the manila envelopes he brought with him. She wants in? Okay. Let's see if she'll still have the guts once after she familiarizes herself with some of the more unsettling details.

"Let's start again at the beginning, okay?" he proposes, his hands shifting through the papers, looking for their first victim's file. "Something tells me you didn't hear much of what was said yesterday," he says, his fingers gliding over Amanda's glossy yearbook photo. When he rises his eyes to her once again, he's surprised to find an utmost adorable pink staining Felicity's cheeks.

"Hey," he murmurs, "I completely understand, okay? Yesterday was…a lot."

"Yeah," she whispers, biting her lip. It's a habit of hers that's equally concerning as it is adoring. And _adoring_? Fuck, what's wrong with him? _Get a grip, Oliver, for fucks sake, get a fucking grip here._

He takes a deep breath, returns to the task at hand. "That's why we are here today, okay? To go over everything one more time and find the connections. But please, don't put yourself under any pressure and if at any time it gets too much for you, just say the word and we'll stop and take a break, okay?"

"Okay," she utters again, but there is determination in the set of her shoulders now.

"Right." Oliver takes out the photos of all four dead girls. He always likes to have a reference to the people whose lives have been lost. It gives a more personal edge to any case he works on.

"We have four victims so far, all killed in the span of the last ten months," he starts, spreading the photos on the table, one next to the other in a chronological order of the women's death.

"First victim," he points his finger to the photo on his left, the same Felicity was shown yesterday. He really hopes for her sake there won't be a repeat of a panic attack for her. "Amanda Sweet, twenty-three years old, musical arts student at Juilliard, New York. Home to visit her parents for winter break. Found dead in February, stabbed to death walking home from having drinks with her former high school friends." Taking a post-it note, Oliver scribbles a few notes on it and attaches it to the bottom of Amanda's photo.

_Amanda, 23, student_

_Killed 16__th__ Feb. 2018_

"Then then there is Susan Colins, twenty-four years old, a saleswoman. Murdered in July after being the last one in the bookshop, closing it. She was stabbed in the back of the shop after hours in the same manner – same MO, same attack and defensive wounds present – then dragged outside through the back door and left in the adjoining alley." Again, he attaches a note to Susan's picture.

_Susan, 24, saleswoman_

_Killed 3__th__ July 2018_

"Third victim is Mary Sommers, twenty-four, a café waitress. Same circumstances, being the last to leave the shop, killed after hours by being stabbed to death." He adds another note under her photo.

_Mary, 24, saleswoman_

_Killed 19__th__ Sept. 2018_

He momentarily stops when he sees something shift in Felicity's gaze, her hand coming to rest over Mary's photo, fingers tracing her features. "She has brown eyes," she remarks, brows pulled together in puzzlement, and Oliver's heart stops. Sharp as she is, it's clear she's already made the connection. He wishes she hadn't.

Clearing his throat, he answers what she's implying, feeling powerless to prevent crushing her with his answer. "She was usually wearing blue contacts."

Felicity nods, casting her eyes down, but she doesn't comment any further. Oliver doesn't know whether that's a good or a bad sign. Yet at this very moment, he feels deeply for her. There is silence as Felicity quietly observes Mary's photo and Oliver in turn studies Felicity, until he feels Digg's foot jog his under the table.

"The fourth victim," his partner quietly reminds him.

"Yes, right." Shuffling in his seat, Oliver picks up where he stopped. "The girl found three nights ago. Jody Snider, twenty-four, a burlesque dancer. Coming home from her shift."

_Jody, 24_

_Killed 31__th__ Oct. 2018_

His eyes fall to Jody's photo, a lump forming in his throat. It's a magnified version from her driver's license, since they do not yet have a better picture. But even from the low-quality photo, he can see the similarities; hair dyed blond and eyes of a greyish-blue color that's so shockingly similar to Felicity's own. It makes his stomach churn.

They take a moment, observing the photos and notes. The silence is finally interrupted by Felicity's shaking voice. "When is Susan's birthday?"

The question catches him off guard, but he doesn't question it. Sifting through the papers, he pulls out Susan's file.

"Twenty-fourth of July. Why?"

"That's my birthday," Felicity whispers so quietly, he has to strain his ears to hear her.

The moment she says it out loud though, the realization hits him with a ton of bricks, the connection Felicity must have already suspected instantly confirmed. His eyes meet Digg's own shocked ones before they quickly return to Felicity. Her eyes are filled with tears, her bottom lip trembling, abused to a point of injury by her intensive chewing.

"They are _me_," she whispers, her voice shaking. "They are me, but they are not. He said so himself in his note."

_She was nothing but an impostor. They may try to imitate you as much as they want, but there is only one original, and I won't be fooled._

"Oh, God," Felicity keens, hiding her face behind her hands. "They are dead because of me. Because they are _not_ me."

"No, Felicity," Oliver says forcefully and he hears his voice amplified, momentarily confused before he realizes he and Diggle spoke at the same time. They quickly share a look and Diggle gives him the tiniest of nods, so Oliver takes a deep breath, stealing himself. He has to pick his words carefully, absolutely can't fuck this up.

"No, Felicity, nobody is dead because of you," he repeats more calmly now, but he can see he's losing her. Tears stream down her face as she wipes at them, but they just keep on coming, shoulders shaking with wrenching sobs she tries and fails to suppress. She is not meeting either of their eyes and Oliver hates it, absolutely hates the way the Slasher, whoever he is, got through to her on such a low and utmost private level.

"Listen to me, Felicity," Oliver starts again, this time more forcefully to regain her attention. He gently grasps both of her hands to pulls them off her face, squeezing her fingers for emphasis.

"Listen to me and listen hard. There is nothing, absolutely _nothing_, you have to blame yourself for. It's him. _Only him_." his hands squeeze her cold fingers, and though they lie limply in his, she doesn't try to pull them away. He takes that as a good sign, along with his recapture of her attention. She's looking back at him again, listening to what he's saying. At least there's that. "I've been doing this for quite a while now. And trust me when I tell you, it's never anybody else's fault but the person who holds the knife – or the gun, or whatever weapon – with the intent to harm another human being. Even if he didn't fixate on you, even if you never existed at all, he would still kill. His psychosis might have manifested with another kind of targets, but he would still murder. Because it's not about you, it's about who _he_ is. The killing is part of his personality, for whatever reason. Having a type in choosing victims is just a part of his illness, it's an outlet. You and his fixation on you is just a symptom of his disease, not the reason for it. He is compulsive in his killing instincts, and they have nothing to with you. I won't pretend to understand what you're currently going through. I know that you are horrified. That you are scared beyond reason. And I know you feel somehow responsible for the fate of these girls, because he picks them on the basis of their looks being similar to yours. But their death is. Not. Your. Fault. It's his and only his and we're going to get him, and it may be solely thanks to this connection he believes he has to you. It might be the only way to catch him. But his decisions and the steps he has taken in life to become who he is today, what he does today, that has absolutely _nothing_ to do with you."

Her eyes are latched onto his, onto his words, beseeching him to tell her the truth, hopeful and devastated and the same time, and something in his chest breaks irreversibly at the naked vulnerability reflected back at him.

"Do you understand?" he presses, his voice dropping to nearly a whisper as her hands twitch in his. He needs her to understand that nothing of this is her fault. That she is just as much Slasher's victim as any of those girls.

It takes her a moment to respond, but finally, Felicity gives them the tiniest of nods. It's much later when Oliver realizes that throughout his whole speech, he's never let go of her hands.

xxx

After constituting a timeline for Slasher's murder victims, they parallel the cases with Felicity receiving the packages. They make copies of the notes, mark them with dates she received them on and make a short comment about the gifts they arrived with.

Amanda's locket arrived in October, which means it was in Slasher's possession for about eight months. They are unable to attribute any of the other gifts to any of the dead girls yet, but now they have a solid lead and Oliver knows exactly what his next step is going to be – contacting the remaining victim's relatives to ask whether any particular pieces of jewelry went missing around the time the women were killed.

So far, they have the golden bracelet with emerald stones that came with the first package in April, a simple golden necklace chain from a package she received in June and a silver bracelet with animal charms from the fourth mail she received in September, pieces that don't have an owner yet. Hopefully, not for long.

It's a good start. At least it's a start. Until now, they'd had literally nothing.

There is one last remaining item, another possible connection between the victims and Felicity, that needs to be addressed. The weird Tamagotchi left with each girl. For some reason, Oliver feels rather apprehensive about breaching the topic, but there is no way around it. He leafs through the folder until he finds a photo of the weird retro toy.

"There is something else, Felicity. He wasn't only stealing from his victims. He was also leaving something behind."

Her brows pull together in confusion. "How do you mean?"

"There was an item left with each victim. I need you to look at it and tell us if you recognize it or if it means anything to you. Mind you, there are four of these, one found with each victim respectively." He pushes the photo across the table towards her, looking closely at Felicity as she takes the picture in.

The change is instantaneously as Felicity goes from curious to shocked and then heartbroken in the span of a single second, her eyes filling once again.

"Frack," she whispers. "That's Billy." Her voice breaks on the name, even as her words don't make much sense.

"Billy?"

"Yeah. A Tamagotchi I had. It's an electronic pet, of sorts. It was pretty popular when I was a kid. A tiny electronic toy to simulate an animal in need to provide feeding and petting and sleeping as it grew older and then died, and was reborn and the whole cycle started again," she is recounting the facts clinically, but her voice is betraying her, shaking and hitching in certain spots.

"We know how the toy works, Felicity," Diggle says gently. "Could you maybe explain its connection to you? You said it was–Billy?"

"That was my toy's name. I even had it- Oh God, I even showed him off on a couple episodes of Lisy. But I loved to play with him off screen too. It was a combination of both worlds, a pet and – at that point of time – a particularly clever piece of electronic. I genuinely liked playing and caring for him. Most of the time, it was just me and him. In a sense, that toy was my best childhood friend."

"Your best friend?" Oliver repeats, unable to mask his surprise, instantly feeling bad when he sees her face flush with embarrassment.

"I didn't have friends growing up. Being intellectually ahead of my peers while being a childhood star, being homeschooled… it was complicated to maintain normal relationships with kids my age. Having an actual, living pet was not really an option back them, it would just take a lot of time to take care of. There was a time when my mom wanted to get me a dog, but my father outright forbid it." She stops then, her eyes lost in memories of a subject that's obviously a painful one to remember, so Oliver tries to concentrate on what's solely vital for the case, not wanting her to have to offer any more of her privacy than she already had to.

"You mentioned you had it on the show with you?"

"Yeah. I got it as part of a business contract with the manufacturing company, sort of a product placement gig when they firstly kicked off its marketing campaign in the U.S. There was a time when I would carry Billy with me all the time, talking about him on the show; you could say direct marketing of sorts. From what I heard, it sold pretty well too."

"Could you maybe point us to those episodes where you had him?" asks Diggle.

"Yeah, sure. Absolutely. There are digitalized tapes of the show…my mom should still have those somewhere. I'll ask her to mail them over."

"We'd appreciate that very much."

She nods, but her eyes are still glued to the turquois egglike gadget, her visible pain making Oliver's chest twist with an ache of his own.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

_He waits for her at the café. It's her day. She's never missed having her coffee – or having her stupid colleague fetch it for her like the good dog he is – in the past several months, at least not whenever he was here to observe it. She was a creature of habits, his Lisy. _

_He waits and waits, but she never makes an appearance, nor does that stupid servant of hers, and he is confused. Because why the sudden change? Not to mention, he was really, really looking forward to see her. Last days have been...hectic, to say the least, the closer his plan was coming to execution. He needed just one more girl, one more message to send Lisy so she'd know the time for them to be together was coming._

_He's counted in these secret meetings in the meantime, and when she doesn't show up like this, it's extremely disappointing._

_He remembers how troubled she looked in the past couple of days, weeks really. How she sat alone at her computer until late at night. His poor lonely girl. He tried to cheer her up with his messages, but it was obviously not enough._

_And then the pesky FBI started to stick their noses where they didn't belong and now she's completely withdrawn, his poor girl. But he will take care of it, he vows. He will take care of it all, take care of her, once they are together. He just needs to throw the agents a distraction, to occupy their focus while he focuses on her extraction from their grasp._

_And why not kill two birds with one stone and send a message plus a distraction at the same time? Yeah. That could work, though it might take a little more time to prepare. But he's a patient man. He's waited a decade, surely a couple of days won't harm. Especially when there's such a sweet reward waiting for him at the other side._

_He is about to leave his spot, hiding in a dark back alley behind a dumpster full of a nearby restaurant's waste, when he sees him._

_Not her colleague, no. It's that pretty whats-his-name agent from the other day who strides into the café with his gorilla of a partner at his heel and buys a coffee. A single fucking cup. _

_Without a doubt, he knows it's for her. And his heart soars in rage._


	7. Chapter 7

Organizing her workspace was never Felicity's priority. She always rocked chaos. Which is exactly the single word to properly describe the current state of her personal work station. There are papers, pens, photos, empty coffee mugs and toffee wrappers littering every single space of her desk, but she doesn't care, chewing on her liquorice twist as she squints into her computer.

It's been hours and her eyes are starting to show the first signs of fatigue, having grown dry and irritated over the course of the past couple of days. She is not used to this anymore, the sleepless nights and never-ending gazing onto multiple screens, her eyes snapping back and forth between the running computers as she furiously types her code until the carefully crafted electronics finally yields to her will and produces some results.

Ever since founding Helix, her code writing has been more on the mellow side. She's still writing software, yet she's also dividing her focus and attention between computers and mechanics, building the components and linking them to the programming in a perfect symbiosis of a functional manmade biomechanical limb.

Hacking though? That one she hasn't done in years. Not since Cooper.

Yet apparently, she's still got it. And, apparently, she's missed it, too. She hasn't even realized how very much. How much she's missed having her heart race as she cracks and breaches another wall, mind deciphering systems most thought impenetrable as her fingers fly over the keyboard.

True, her work is purely on the legal side these days, but _oh my God_, the thrill she can feel from hacking 'for fun' is simply priceless, her fingers tingling with adrenaline, and for once, it's from the good kind too.

Also, technically, she is not hacking – _still such an ugly word_ – for fun, but quite the opposite. There is a logic to her madness. Doesn't mean she can't enjoy the process in the meanwhile, though.

And enjoy it, she does.

"_YES!_" Felicity cries out loud, pumping her fist in the air when the very last safety catch lying between her and the security system she tried to breach for the last couple of hours falls. She's still got it; _GhostFoxGoddess's_ still the best!

Now all she needs to do is link the individual parts together, upload her search algorithm and wait for it to do its job. Piece of cake.

"What are you so happy about?" asks Curtis from their mechanics station, screwdriver in one hand and a joint component in the other.

"Nothing," she sing-songs nonchalantly, unable to hold the big smile from stretching across her face. Damn! It's really been too long. Why has she neglected her favorite hobby again? Oh right, there's the _illegal_ part. But then there is the real reason. Cooper. Son of a bitch. Her face pulls into a grimace at that.

"You sure you're alright over there?" asks Curtis a little concerned now and no wonder, since these days, she can apparently go from victorious to sour to chirpy or teary in a flash.

"Yeah, yeah," she waves his worries away with a hand, "just finally cracked something in the system that's been bugging me for a while."

"Oh, good for you. Way to go, girl!" Curtis calls back to her with a smile, pumping his own fist in the air in a gesture of support.

He's sweet and genuine in his joy, and has been nothing short of amazing these past couple of difficult days, always there for her, trying to make things appear as normal as possible. Which makes her feel that much worse for lying to him.

Her and Curtis, they go a long way. And one of the cornerstones of their friendship and partnership is that they don't keep secrets from each other. But this part of her life…the Cooper part, the hacktivism part, that is something nobody else has ever been aware of, a part she's not particularly proud of in hindsight. Don't get her wrong, she _is_ proud of her skills, fully and absolutely, but she knows the world doesn't look kindly at hackers in general and the things Cooper made her do back in the day were more than a little shady.

So no. She is not telling Curtis, not if she strikes out with nothing. Nobody ever needs to know this is the way she's been spending the past couple of days. And if – by some miracle – her searches do come up with something… Well, she'll cross that particular bridge when she comes to it.

Glancing at the screen to her right, Felicity looks at the pictures of the four dead girls smiling at her from the screen, all so full of life and yet already dead, and Felicity is once again reminded why she's doing this. Why it's all worth it – legal or illegal – as far as these girls get the justice they deserve and their killer is set behind bars where he'll be unable to harm anybody else ever again.

She once again goes over all the data, cross-checking all the relevant facts she uploaded to her very own computer murder-board with the information she put into her algorithm. It has taken her quite a while to sift through all the files Agent Diggle delivered to her doorstep the other day, then took even longer entering all the big as well as tiny details into her evaluation program, categorizing them by date, relevance and other characteristics, but she thinks she's got them all – all the important facts – into one compact, relevant and logical bundle. That part was hard, but then there was the ultimate hurdle, creating the virus that'd unleash her search algorithm into the relevant security systems and databases. She was nervous at first, hasn't worked in the field for several hours, and things do tend to change so fast in computer science, but she needn't have worried. In the end, it was as easy as riding a bike.

And it's a thing of a beauty, really, her virus. It's a creation she's particularly proud of. She's been working on in non-stop the past couple of days and it's rather clever, is she herself says so. Shame it won't really see the light of the day as part of an honest and legitimate piece of software, but if it does its job, it will still be more than worth it.

Her eyes scan the code one obsessively more time before she finally hits enter and lets her search virus go viral, hoping beyond hope it will do its job not only well, but quickly too.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Son of a bitch," Felicity quietly curses under her breath as she furiously types into her keyboard of her computer work station. She's been doing that quite a lot lately, Oliver realizes as he observes her from his perch on her couch, coffee cup in one hand, a file in the other. Whatever she's working on is obviously not yielding to her will and offering the results she was hoping for, if the aggressive way she hits the keys with is anything to go by.

It brings a smile to Oliver's face, the thought of all the zeal and dedication Felicity puts into any task she sets her mind to. She can get completely lost in her work, so deeply in fact that Oliver is quite confident she wouldn't notice if firecrackers went off directly under her nose.

He really likes and cherishes these moments. When her computer pings with something and she immediately rushes to it like her life depends on it, then works for a couple of moments to tweak and change the code to her liking before letting it resume its work again. It grants him a quiet and often long moment to just observe her, take her in without having to worry she'd find him creepily or unprofessionally staring. Because unfortunately, that's exactly what he does every single time. It's, in fact, what he's doing this very moment; just observing her and – with a hint of embarrassment – enjoying the view.

She's wearing a nice, simple yet sexy orange summer dress today. Her legs are bare – and impossibly long – in those orange red pumps she wears in spite of the brutally chilly November wind howling behind her loft's windows, which tells him she has no plans to leave her apartment. And despite feeling slightly ashamed for the thought and regretful for her own discomfort, his heart settles greatly with the realization.

'_Soon'_, he promises himself. Soon they're going to catch this son of a bitch and she'll be free to safely roam the city once again, go out and leave the loft's confinements. Do things as mundane as get a cup of coffee, visit a cinema or buy a new pair of shoes. Whatever her heart desires. Until then, he's unofficially designated himself as a liaison between her and her coffee shop.

"Sorry," Felicity apologizes as she walks back to him a couple of minutes later, an apologetic smile on her face.

"Tough code?" he offers sympathetically, although if he's truthful, half the time he has no idea what she's talking about whenever she tries to explain her work to him, her mind and mouth running a mile a minute. He just can't keep up. Still, he likes to just listen to her voice.

"You could say that," she hedges, and there is something about how she evades his eyes that makes him feel quite uneasy, but he lets it go for the moment, not interested in grilling her when she doesn't feel like telling him what's bothering her. God knows, there are plenty of reasons these days.

"Where were we?" she asks distractedly, plopping back to her side of the couch, leaving a respectable distance between them despite turning her body towards him.

"Uhm…around the middle of drinking our coffee, I believe," he answers impishly and she smiles at that.

"Yeah," she drawls with an apologetic wince, "Sorry about running away at you like that. It's just…whenever I get an idea-"

He stops her mid-sentence with a halting gesture of his hand. "No need to apologize, Felicity. It's your work, of course it takes precedence. I can wait."

For a moment, she looks struck speechless, her eyes casting downwards before she utters a tiny appreciative "Thank you." Which makes him wonder that his words aren't something she's used to hearing too often. That her work and her priorities matter. Which is a shame, really. She shouldn't feel self-conscious about being good at what she does and occasionally loosing herself in her work.

The short silence is broken by Felicity clearing her throat, "Thea still angry with you?"

He smiles at that. It's his sister, so yeah, the thought of her always brings a smile to his face.

Ever since that first time he brought Felicity coffee, Oliver has made it his mission to stop by and bring her a cup of coffee from her favorite place as a piece offering as well as a compensation for the fact that Felicity herself currently can't – or shouldn't – go out to grab it for herself.

At first, it was just every other day, less even. But then he showed up more and more often, until a point when the habit turned into an everyday occurrence, Oliver using his lunch hour to go visit his favorite computer engineer.

The nature of his visits changed over time as well. First, the pretext – and yes, Oliver can now see that's all it was, just an excuse to see her – was to update her about any news on the case or discuss ideas or leads they might have missed. But later, his visit started to take longer, and five minutes between her door turned to fifteen minutes spend in her foyer to thirty minutes spent chatting on the couch and talking about her or his day up to a point when Oliver had to literally force himself to unglue his frame from her couch to catch the end of his lunch hour. Sometimes it was him who brought the food and sometimes Felicity would have ordered something for the two of them and Curtis. And slowly, from what was first just a touching base sort of event became daily lunch meetings he was looking forward to with more enthusiasm he would ever admit to anybody.

Diggle is pointedly not commenting on where Oliver is disappearing each day for an hour, a fact for which Oliver is immensely grateful. He just…he really needs these meetings. Needs his daily chance to see her and make sure she's okay, to offer her at least a little bit of connection to the outside world when she now has to be cooped up between the walls of her own apartment because Oliver himself has yet been unable to catch the sick murderer fixated on her.

And if he is being completely truthful with himself, his daily visits are also becoming more and more about enjoyment as much as his need to check up on her. He _likes_ spending time with Felicity, likes getting to know her. It's not about the case anymore. It's about getting to know her and offering more of himself in return.

Spending the short amount of time with her at her loft each day brings him comfort and calmness, quietens his buzzing mind and organizes his scattered thoughts. Felicity's presence and company helps him refocus and regroup, so when he returns to his office just an hour later, he feels invigorated and ready to crack this damn case wide open. In a way, Felicity's company has become his very own respite. He feels calm and centered when he's around her, and he doesn't want to look too closely as to why.

To assuage his bad conscience over his daily breaks and to compensate for his absence during lunch, he works even more late hours. Which, however, brings them to the current topic of his sister, who is pissed at him for not being able to find the time to personally meet with her in several weeks.

"Don't worry, she'll come around," Felicity says quietly when he doesn't respond for a while. "I am sorry this case is eating away so much of your time you could be spending with Thea," she says kindly, her hand soothingly squeezing his forearm.

His eyes fall to her fingers wrapped around his sleeve, and even through his shirt's fabric, Oliver can feel the warmth of her skin. Which is bad. _Or good, depending on the way you look at it_, his inner voice chimes unhelpfully.

Oliver is no fool. Of course, he's attracted to her. Madly, even, and seriously, how could he _not_? She is beyond beautiful, crazy smart, clever, funny, and on top of that, she has the biggest and kindest heart he's ever seen in anybody. And under any other circumstances, he wouldn't think twice and already ask her out on a date. But under these circumstances… There is just no way. Even if there was not the blatant conflict of interest, it would be utmost unseemly and selfish of him to ask her out and lay this on her under these circumstances, when her life is in so much turmoil and uncertainty. She's got enough on her plate to deal with other than his baser desires and immature lack of personal restraint. It just wouldn't be fair and at the moment, it's definitely not the right time.

Moreover, asking her out would be one thing, but Oliver knows for a fact that's not where he'd stop, already secretly yearning for so much more with her than simple and slow casual dating between two willing adults. Something tells him, though, that a potential relationship wouldn't come as easily to Felicity. Apparently, she's been hurt by relationships in the past, starting with her father's abandonment for sure, but Oliver suspects there is more to her timidness regarding forming new relationships than that. The way she is so closed off, skittish almost, living a successful yet rather friendless and lonesome life, Felicity and a potential relationship with her could prove to be something that could break the fragile friendship they've build over the past few weeks for good. It's a friendship Oliver isn't ready to risk, not now and not by being selfish for wanting more when her world is already so fucking unstable.

And then there is the other thing. If Oliver doesn't need one thing in his life right now, it's to make things awkward and uncomfortable between them if she ultimately wasn't interested in him like that. He can't afford to have her withdraw from him and lose the trust they so painstakingly built between them over the course of the past weeks. It's not even about their own feelings getting hurt that's at stake here, it's her very own life that's in danger if things were to go south and he didn't have his head steadily on his shoulders. If there's one thing Oliver won't jeopardize, it's her safety, even if it means hell's never get his chance with an extraordinary woman like Felicity Smoak. A woman who's weaseling her way into his heart more and more with each passing day.

No, first things first. Catching the Star City Slasher, get the murdered girls justice and make sure there are no more victims, getting Felicity the piece of mind to continue on with her life – that has to take absolute and uncompromised precedence now. Everything else, his own growing feelings towards her, will have to wait.

So Oliver forces himself to ignore the warmth the touch of her fingers causes, her simple act of kindness seeping through the material of his shirt and underneath his skin and grits his teeth instead, forcing a smile onto his face. Anything just to see her smile at him in return.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

_He is so damn angry, he's nearly shaking with rage. Today, something happened that's never happened to him before. He was turned away. He had a note for her, an important one on top of that. One he really needed to deliver personally to her door._

_So he put on his suit and his wig along with the fake beard, took his briefcase and made his way to her building. And the fucking doorman stopped him, asking for the purpose of his visit along with a damn ID!_

_He had barely the presence of mind to remember the name of the middle-aged business man who lived one level under Lisy and whom he regularly saw pacing in front of his windows snapping into his phone while he was watching Lisy. So he just stammered his way through the story that he was just delivering some court papers for the guy but forgot his wallet with his ID back at his office. The doorman seemed to believe him, offered to take the documents for him and have them delivered, but flat our refused to let him walk inside on his own, blabbering about protocols and new security measures and his boss breathing down his neck._

_It was utterly humiliating as he was forced to offer a smile to the man and assure him that of course he understood, that it was okay, that it was surely the right thing to do, when he very well knew the man was a fucking retard sitting on his ass the whole day watching stupid Spanish telenovelas while stinking of fish tacos he ordered and ate at his station with almost religious regularity._

_What had him so riled up was not just the fact that he wasn't let in. No. What had him absolutely livid was that that jackass of an FBI Agent got to come and go as he damn well pleased. Each and every damn day, the asshole was there with that stupid bribe of his! Stupid fucking jerk knowing perfectly well that if his Lisy couldn't say no to one thing in the whole damn world, it was a coffee from her favorite place. The same place she was not visiting anymore because she didn't have to anymore. Not when she now had her own lovesick FBI puppy bringing it to her every damn day. _

_How come that fucker Oliver Queen – and yes, of course he made sure he knew who he was dealing with, he was no amateur. Keep your friends close but enemies closer, right? – how come he could just hang out at her place all the damn time and nobody gave a fuck? Didn't he have actual work to do at his office? Of course he did! _

_So it was obvious to him that this was nothing more than a silly plot. Agent Queen was just using Lisy, trying to coax information from her about him. Well, too bad, because if his regular visits told him anything, it was that Lisy hasn't budged an inch so far, his clever girl. Otherwise he wouldn't drag his ass there every day, right? If he got what he wanted from her? Still, he has to make sure she knows what kind of danger she's in. He has to warn her._


	8. Chapter 8

"The Tandoori is really delicious today," comments Oliver after popping a piece of chicken into his mouth, moaning at the taste.

"Yeah, I know. And Rashid looked _almost_ comfortable as he passed you the bags today."

The cheeky grin Oliver throws back at her makes Felicity's heartrate pick up. "Well, me and Rashid go a long way back."

That makes her bark out a rather unladylike laugh. "You mean that time you were close to outright threatening him at my doorstep, nearly making the poor guy shit his pants when you went all grouchy protective FBI Agent on him that first time he delivered our food?"

"What?" Oliver nonchalantly defends, "I was just trying to make sure he's who he said he was." The sight of Oliver's blues growing huge as he feigns innocence makes Felicity press her lips tightly together in a futile attempt to stop a giggle leaving her lips, her eyes narrowing at him in mock reprimand.

"Too much?" Oliver asks with a wince, half seriously and half-jokingly, and that makes her finally crack, laughing out loud in earnest.

"I think you've grown on him though," she mutters good-naturedly, occasional giggles still leaving her lips as she pops another piece of lamb lathered in curry sauce into her mouth.

"You know, I think so too," agrees Oliver as they share a conspiratorial smile.

It's at that moment that her computer pings, causing an involuntary groan leaving Felicity lips, her head falling forward to her chest in frustration, cause really? _Now?_

It's her fucking lunch hour. Her favorite time of the day. The single time she gets to spend to relax and take her mind off her work and off the Slasher, simply talking to Oliver about everything and nothing. They've been interrupted like this several times already in the past couple of days and Felicity could swear her computer is doing this on purpose just to annoy her, picking the only time of her day when she actually doesn't want to be interrupted by anything work or case related.

Truth to be said, her algorithm hasn't been performing as she has initially hoped. She tried not to be too dejected or discouraged about it, but she did hope it would have found what she was searching for by now. Instead, she just met roadblock after roadblock, along with new firewalls and security systems to be breached and other system complications sprinkled with occasional glitches and errors on her end. And despite the fact that her computer has indeed already regurgitated _some_ search results, they were definitely not what she was looking for, sometimes nothing more than unrelated facts or simply utter gibberish that's completely useless to her, so her last couple of days have been spent with re-tweaking and re-coding of her program. This was, for sure, one of those times where she would be once again met by disappointment, but the time pressure – and yeah, who is she kidding, her professional pride as well – don't allow her not to react.

Sighing rather dramatically, Felicity puts the half-eaten container of rice on the table and smiles apologetically at Oliver as she walks over her work station. The chair squeaks underneath her ass as she sits down and waits for the screen to light up, but when it does, Felicity's mind freezes, her mouth struck speechless as her eyes try to process what they see.

It's there. It's all there, the search results she's been hoping for, praying for, plopping up on her display in chunks and categories, exactly as she's intended, aligning neatly into a nice tree structure as she still simply stares, simply there and just _begging_ for her attention. She quickly scans the findings to make absolutely sure they are what she was looking for, and the more she reads, the more she grows equal measure excited and horrified. And then, her stomach drops. _Oh God_.

"Everything alright, Felicity?" Oliver's asks with concern from the couch and when their eyes meet over the screen, she knows he's onto her. And _oh frack, oh frack, oh frack,_ he doesn't even know the first part yet, the part where she'd had to hack numerous federal and national crime databases to look for evidence.

She turns away from the monitors, trying to get her rapidly beating heart under control, but it's no use. The world is spinning and her breath is coming in short angry puffs and she has to bend forward and unceremoniously stick her head between her legs just in order not to be sick on the spot.

Oliver is at her side in a flash and within seconds, Felicity feels a warm hand on her back as he crouches next to her, asking her if she is okay.

She takes a deep gulp of air, then another, working hard to make her body work properly again.

"I might have done something," she finally chokes out, and her voice sounds strange and squeaky even to her own ears, coming out a little breathier than she would have hoped.

"You might have done something?" Oliver repeats slowly, and as she throws a quick glance at him, it's clear he is not following.

_God._

"Please don't hate me," she whines, aggressively chewing on her lip as she straightens back up in her chair, wringing her hands in front of her.

"Felicity, I could never hate you. But you're really worrying me. Now can you tell me what it is that has you on the verge of another panic attack?"

She takes a deep breath. One, two, three.

"I'm sort of a hacker. Though I really hate the word," she blurts out, her eyes pressed tightly shut. She doesn't want to see his disappointment as she delivers her reveal. "I wrote a program to search for anything possibly Slasher related in various federal as well as national databases going back years. I just- I wanted to me sure we haven't missed anything. There just _had to_ be something. And the now my program says there is. God Oliver, there is so damn much."

There. Like ripping off a band-aid.

She doesn't want to look too closely at what she'll find underneath.

xxx

The contents of her findings are a lot to take in. They truly are.

They push the illegal part to the backburner, completely ignore the subject of how she got her hands on the files to the back of their minds for the time being in order to concentrate on the information in question as they spend long minutes that turn into hours to just sift through the information.

There are more, _far more_ girls. Young girls, blonde girls, dead girls. Killed and dropped all across the United States for the past decade.

The search results date as back as nine years back with the first victim, a terribly young girl from Indiana – a child still really, only fifteen years of age – found dead in an alley behind a church she was frequenting with her family, her skull smashed by a metal pipe found nearby.

She's the only one where there are no stab wounds, the M.O. being vastly different from the Slasher's usual style of stabbing his victims to death. The murder was hasty and sloppy, clearly unplanned. But there is no doubt it's him, the Slasher. For Shelby Crowley's body is missing one single piece of valuable jewelry, the reason local police ruled her murder an unfortunate mugging gone wrong. She's missing a golden bracelet with emerald stones she's got from her rich grandparents for her fifteenth birthday.

"She must have been the first one," Oliver murmurs, adding Shelby's info to their makeshift murder board while Felicity inserts the info to her own one constructed inside her own computer program.

There are more girls, nearly one each year ever since then, in Kentucky and Las Vegas and even Seattle. All young, all blonde, all stabbed to death with no apparent motive, no sexual assault, some attributed to being victims of mugging, one or two to random gang violence. Some reported missing jewelry, amongst which, a golden chain and a silver bracelet with animal charms.

The victims seem to grow in age as time progresses. Shelby being the first at the tender age of fifteen, then there is Jane Herzfelt a year later, sweet sixteen, and Rebecca Simmons, seventeen, July Walters, eighteen, and so forth. The program hasn't picked out a murder from two years ago, there appears to be no victim by the age of twenty-two, but even there, they can't be sure. There are always girls nobody's looking for, nobody reports missing.

But the pattern is easily discerned – the victims growing, maturing with Felicity herself.

His victims have been aging with her. Felicity is sick to her stomach with that realization. She can't believe how long this has been going on and nobody has caught on. She can't believe there is a person out there obsessed with killing young girls only because they look like her. She can't believe her childhood stint with fame has ruined so many lives.

"I can't believe no one has caught up to this yet," Felicity murmurs, devastated. She understands, logically, that it's been nearly a decade, that the girls were strewn all across the US, that many were from small local communities where they rarely saw a murder and some were from big cities where the death of a young girl was anything newsworthy, but still. Eight dead girls in nine years.

And nobody caught on to their murderer. Because he's a traveler, obviously. Or has been, till recently, when he finally caught up on her in Star City and decided to make it his new hunting turf.

Felicity is this close from puking all over her work station.

"Felicity," Oliver gently calls to her, his voice raspy with shock. "This, this is beyond huge." He is not meeting her eyes as he says it, keeping his own still glued to the information in front of him, clearly trying to make sense of it all. "I need to go to my superiors with this," he proclaims and meets her eyes then, a grave, nearly beseeching look pinning her to the spot.

"I know," she whispers, torn. They have yet to talk about the big elephant in the room, the illegal way the information has been obtained – by her hacking federal and national databases – and how that might reflect on her, but even worse – how that might reflect on the case.

Because this is an apple – a giant, fucking disgusting apple – from a poisonous tree. And they both know it.

Not to mention that maybe this would be the right time for her to think about getting a lawyer, but that's not even the thing that's pressing against her heart this very moment, making it hard for her to breathe, because all she can think about as she helpless gazes into Oliver's unreadable blue gaze are the possible repercussions this reveal could have on her and Oliver's relationship, the blow their carefully crafted trust might take from all of this. And scared by that particular thought, the unthinkable way of losing someone whose company she so effortlessly grew to enjoy and cherish over the course of the past couple of weeks, the person she is currently relying on, makes her tremble like a leaf to her very core. She won't survive his disappointment or possible judgement, his anger at going behind his back and procuring evidence that might be tainted by the way she chose to obtain it.

She waits and waits, but neither the judgement or the anger ever comes. Oliver just stares at her, deep in thought, the wheels in his head spinning and mind running a mile a minute.

"We have to go smart about this," he quietly murmurs at last, his eyes boring into her, one of his hands covering hers and squeezing tight for emphasis.

"What do you mean?" She's momentarily confused. This is definitely not the reaction she was expecting.

"We need to find a way that would make it plausible for me to find this information on my own."

Her face scrunches in even more confusion. "What?"

"You can't take the fall for this, Felicity," he says urgently, his fingers twitching over hers. "Give me twenty-four hours and I promise you, me and Digg will come up with something, sell it as a hunch, a broadened search, cherry pick the data and present them as a connection we have been looking for ourselves, unresolved murders of young girls, blonde, stabbed, combined with the missing jewelry, search broadened all across the states just to cover our bases. The databases you used…they are all available to us as well, our search algorithms not as quick or efficient for sure, but it's not completely impossible to come up with the same results, not when we know exactly what we are looking for this time. Which is, lets be honest here, something that should have been done by the bureau a long time ago anyway, but never mind that now. Me and Digg, we gather the evidence and present it to our superiors in a clean, legally admissible way, omitting your involvement completely, just to be on a safe side. We can, maybe, mention that it was your idea, as an IT expert, you proposed to broaden the search, and we did and it panned out beautifully. I admit, coming with such a huge reveal at this point of time might be a far stretch – for us to find all of this evidence in such a short span of time without many new clues, but nobody is going to be looking too closely at the _how_ once we present this kind of _what_ we found."

She is looking at him and she is hearing what he is saying, but she still has a hard time comprehending what exactly he's _meaning_ by his words, his first instinct and concern being clearly to shield her from the ramifications. He's actually trying to protect her, mask her role in uncovering the facts in order to keep her clear from the fallout of her criminal activity, and her eyes mist over at that realization.

She really thought shit would rain down on her for this, but only hours after discovering her to be a criminal, Oliver is already coming up a plan to cover her tracks. Nobody has ever done anything as thoughtful for her ever before, and so of course it's hard not to be touched.

She just stares at him, mouth slightly open, still trying to wrap her mind around this man. He must get the wrong impression though, because his brows scrunch together with worry at her lack of response, and before she knows what's happening, he's close, way too close, his hand wrapping around her shoulder as they hunch together on her couch.

"Don't worry, Felicity, please. I _swear_ to you, this will work out. The search on my part might be a hard sell, but with Diggle, we can make it work. I swear though, there is no way in hell I am admitting to obtaining this information in any other way but through official legal channels. You don't have to be afraid, on top of everything else, that this will ever come back to you. So long as you covered your tracks online and I-"

"I did," she automatically mumbles.

"-and I have no doubt you did," he easily continues with a quick smile, "There is nothing you have to be worried about."

"You don't mind me being a criminal?" she blurts out, because she can't believe how okay he is with this. "With going behind your back and hacking into multiple national and federal databases?"

"No, I honestly don't care about that one bit. If nothing else, I am quite impressed. And proud, but you never heard me say that and I will deny it if you ever bring it out," Oliver says playfully with a tiny smile before his face grows solemn again. "What I do care about, however, is keeping you safe, Felicity. I don't think you realize how very huge is what you uncovered, what kind of storm it will cause back at the bureau. But all through that, what we have to focus on is _you_. Your safety. Because you are the key to this and you are the single most important piece of the puzzle here. There are eleven girls dead, and their killer is obsessed with you. I am not taking any fucking chances. And in order to do that, we have to stay focused on _what _we uncovered and not the way _how_. I honestly couldn't care less about anything right now but ultimately catching this son of a bitch and putting him behind bars for good."

She feels nearly dizzy with the relief that washes over her at his words. She is trembling too, she realizes, right down to her very toes.

She was so damn scared he would think ill of her.

"Hey, hey," he calls softly, gently grasping her shoulders in his big warm hands, his touch grounding her. "You okay?"

She nods, but doesn't dare speaking. He observes her silently for a long moment, worry written all across his face. "I am sorry, I really wish I could stay and we could talk more, but I need to go. I need to talk to Dig and put things into motion so we obtain this information legally the sooner the better."

She nods in understanding, despite her stomach tying in tight knots at the thought of him leaving.

"Maybe when we are finally done with this, you can tell me how a brilliant, straight A-level girl like you got into hacking," he says, a naughty spark in his eye that has her heart flutter in her chest and breath hitching in her throat. "I am sure it's a story to beat all stories," he grins warmly, a knowing spark in his eyes, and her face instantly flushes with heat.

His face falls in disappointment and regret the next moment, though. "But I really have to go now, Felicity."

"Of course," she pushes through her teeth, something nagging at the back of her mind. Just when he rises to his feet and turns to leave, a thought hits her and her hand shoots out to stop him, her fingers grasping his wrist.

"Oliver, wait! There was a note."

He turns back to her, eyebrows scrunched together in confusion so she quickly elaborates. "In Shelby's hand. The report said there was a torn piece of paper, like a torn-away note with some writing on it in Shelby's hand the coroner extracted from her dead grip – literally. But there was no DNA and no relation so they just put it together with the evidence and the online archives are not fully digitalized yet, so I couldn't get my hands on it." She shrugs at him helplessly. "I just found it odd, that of all the things, it's a note. And I think it might turn out to be something of interest, but I don't know how we can get our hands on it."

"Leave that to me. I will definitely look into that. Request all the original files being delivered to our offices once I've cleared a way to make the findings plausible."

She nods. "Sorry about that, again," She whispers and she is. She is genuinely sorry for making this so hard for them. Covering her hacking tracks is not something they should be concentrating on and yet, here they are.

"Hey, are you serious?" he says, studying her as he takes a step back towards her, his blue eyes pinning her with their intensity before he says in clear astonishment; "My God, you _are_ serious, you honestly are." He shakes his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Felicity, you are remarkable. In just a couple of weeks, you've cracked open a case the whole of the Star City police force and the FBI combined haven't been able to draw a single lead from in the past ten months, and yet you feel the need to apologize?"

Her eyes fall down, but he won't let her, drawing her face up to his with a finger underneath her chin. "Don't you dare," he utters. "These girls, their murders… you just exposed their killer, made sense of their long-forgotten deaths. Their families will be able to get closure. I honestly don't care how you did it, so long as their families get the answers, the closure they need and deserve." He eyes grow steely before he adds, "And so long and this sick son of a bitch is behind bars once and for all."

They walk to the door and Oliver looks torn as he stands there, ready to leave and yet not leaving.

"It's gonna be fine, Felicity," he murmurs, sensing her nervousness, the jittery energy zipping through the whole being. Closing the space between them, he grips one of her hands in his, tightly squeezing her fingers. "I promise," he whispers, drawing her into a quick hug and pressing a gentle kiss to her cheek before letting go of her and slipping out of her apartment without another word.

She stands there, frozen in place.

xxx

Oliver doesn't bring her coffee the next day, apologizing for his absence profusely on the phone instead, but they both know he needs to work on the searches at the office, him and Digg having come up with a rather good plan, he assures her, on how to make it all work out, that will – however – take a couple of days to execute.

She understands, of course. Assures him of the fact numerous times, wishing him luck. Doesn't mean she is not disappointed, which makes her instantly feel bad for being so selfish. Well of course he is working the case, that's his whole main purpose of knowing her, right?

She is still holding to the hope of seeing him the next day, despite knowing it to be mere wishful thinking, but she can't help herself. She misses him. And then immediately feels pathetic for it, because Jesus, she didn't even know an Oliver Queen existed a month ago and now she can't go without him or his presence for a few days? She feels utterly ridiculous.

But she's come to rely on their meeting to relax her and take her mind off things, as crazy as that sounds regarding a guy literally charged with catching her stalker. And… with a sinking heart, Felicity realizes she can't do anything about feeling this way.

Somebody buzzes at the door and her spirits momentarily rise in stupid, misplaced hope, because really, this is getting ridiculous. Oliver called her mere hours ago to explicitly tell her he wouldn't make it today to her place either. Still, her heart beats a little faster as she makes her way to the door before Curtis cuts her off, effectively stopping her in her tracks while he checks the door himself, once again playing her knight in shining armor. She would be offended if she wasn't aware of how very necessary it currently was. Not to mention the fact that Curtis was, without a second though, risking his own safety by sticking out for her.

In the end, it's sweet Mr. Alvarez nervously standing at her door, looking anxious and timid while holding a huge bouquet of flowers in his hands. "Miss Felicity, I am so sorry to intrude," he offers, a slight blush creeping up his old wrinkled cheeks when Felicity smiles at him in return, "But this was left for you at the reception downstairs."

He offers her the flower bouquet and she takes it from him in surprise, barely managing to utter a _thank you_ before Mr. Alvarez's already retreating, hurrying off to quickly return to his post downstairs.

Curtis grins slyly at her shocked expression, pulling her back inside the apartment by the elbow and closing the door behind them. "A see Agent Queen can't get you out of his head."

"What?" Felicity squeaks. "Curtis!"

He outright laughs, the devil.

"What on earth makes you think the flowers are from Oliver?" she counters, despite her heartrate picking up at the very thought and urgh! Stupid heart! "He is just being nice to me as we work together, that's all. Doesn't mean he's sending me flowers now," she dismisses Curtis's words with a voice filled with skepticism, but her heart flutters hopefully in her chest still. _Are they flowers from Oliver?_

"Oh, c'mon, Felicity. I am not blind, I see how the guy looks at you. There is nothing professional or platonic about your daily lunch dates either. And now he's missed your second lunch date in a row, so of course this is his way of apologizing to you," Curtis sing-songs, laughing outright at Felicity's attempt at a glare even as her cheeks grow warm, before his voice grows serious again. "He cares about you, Felicity."

"What?" she tries to laugh him off with indignation, even if something warm and fuzzy flutters in her chest at his words.

"You know it's true. Deep down, you must know. There is no way he would come here every single day just to bring you a cup of coffee if he didn't care about you." Curtis's voice grows even more somber, something tender entering his eyes as he gazes at her. "Don't dismiss it because you are afraid, Felicity."

Her tongue glues to the roof of her mouth at Curtis's words. _Frack_, he knows her too well. Something self-protective surges inside of Felicity's chest as she tries to feebly argue back. "We just work together, Curtis. He comes here for the case. Nothing more." At his raised eyebrow, though, she has to admit; "Okay, so we are…we are friends, of sorts. But just that. Friends."

"And you are okay with being just friends?"

_Yes! _She wants to shout back at him in defiance. _No._ Her inner, much more honest voice says. In the end, she flounders with her answer. "I don't…It's not so…It's complicated, okay?" she hedges. "We barely know each other."

"What's stopping you from getting to know him more?" Curtis presses cheekily and Jesus, would he stop grilling her already?

Felicity rises an eyebrow at him, slightly irritated now, her hackles rising at his playful inquiry. "You know what," she says pointedly.

It makes Curtis sigh. "I know. I know your life is complicated and really, _really_ fucked up right now. But that man cares about you. And from what I can see from my perch on my working station where I regularly try to appear to be a fly on the wall to grant you two lovebirds some privacy, I think you care a great deal about him too."

"Curtis," she rises her voice in clear warning now, because he is truly encroaching into a very dangerous territory, and he gives in, rising his hands into the air in surrender. "I am just saying," he murmurs, finally dropping the subject and turning away from her. For some reason, she feels like she owes him a response.

"I know you mean well, Curtis. But it's not the right time," she murmurs, drawing his gaze back to her. "It wouldn't be fair of me to initiate anything. He's doing his job, actually working _my_ case. It would be unprofessional to put him into such a position." Not to mention mortifying if he shot her down, but that's another matter.

She knows, for a fact, that he's single. There is no ring on his finger and no girlfriend he's ever referenced or mentioned. It's also true that he has no time for relationships, he's told her so himself. He barely has time for his sister, and even that he manages to screw up on a regular basis. His words, not hers.

So while she enjoys their time together, and she does, immensely, she understands their time to be what it is – him doing his job, being the conscionable agent, checking up on her. She won't deny that there is attraction there. Or easy companionship. They work well together, on professional as well as private level. On some level, they also may make sense. But nothing is as simple as that, and once the danger is over, everybody will return to their usual lives. So she enjoys it while it lasts. But Felicity knows, a man like Oliver Queen is not looking for a serious relationship or a girlfriend in general, and definitely not a complicated one as her at that. He could have any woman he laid his eyes on, but he's married to his job, he's told her so much, and his presence in her life, despite both of them enjoying the time spend together, is only in the capacity of making sure the Slasher is caught. Once that is out of their way, there won't be a reason to bring her coffee each day and Agent Queen will move to another case, possibly playing the hero in another beautiful woman's tale.

"He doesn't see me like that, Curtis," she murmurs with a sigh, her gaze lost in the beautiful bouquet, it's strong fragrance intoxicating.

"And yet, he's sending you flowers," points Curtis out quietly, directing Felicity's gaze back to the glowers in her hands. They are indeed beautiful.

"Oh, look, there's a card too," Curtis remarks, extracting a rather large square envelope surprisingly hidden between the greenery at the bottom of the bouquet instead of at the top.

Felicity walks into the kitchen, laying the flowers on the counter and taking the offered envelope from Curtis's fingers. Its surprisingly thick and hard to the touch, unyielding, like there are several pieces of cardboard inside. Which instantly makes her suspicious. This is no usual flower note.

"Curtis," she suddenly says in a high-pitched voice, her hands starting to tremble. "I don't think these flowers are from Oliver."

"Well, who else would they be from- Oh! Oh, _fuck_," he whispers, his own eyes growing huge. "No way."

She opens the envelope with trembling fingers and a couple small, glossy photographs slip out with a piece of paper plastered to the front, words in now sickeningly familiar handwriting scribbled at the back.

_They are watching you, Lisy. They want to get to you. Be careful, my love. He isn't who he seems._

Taking the note down to uncover the picture in her hands, her stomach revolts.

There she is, in her own apartment with Oliver sitting on her couch, pouring over the contents of the Slasher's last parcel. Shot with a high-zoom lense, no doubt.

"Felicity," Curtis says in a tight, shocked voice, but she barely registers him, sifting through the images.

There is her again, in her apartment, drinking coffee while working at her workstation. There is another one of her, at her favorite café, ordering her regular and talking to Mike, her favorite barista, smiling sweetly at a joke he must have made. She's wearing her favorite burgundy dress, its skirt peeking out from underneath her camel coat, a combination she's worn just a couple of weeks back to one of her last visits to the shop before her world got blown to pieces. And then there is the last one, her, walking down the street with Curtis downtown, talking on the phone while he carries their deli order. She is in her flowery dress and strap high heels, her bag hanging from her shoulder and hair in a high ponytail because it's so damn hot. Because its freaking summer. Because this photo has been taken _months_ ago. Her knees give out from underneath her when the realization hits her full force.

_It's been months._

"Whoa, Felicity," Curtis cries, barely catching her, somehow stumbling with her and her uncooperating limbs to the couch where he deposits her limp body.

She feels sick. Sick and violated, in the worst sense of the word.

He's been stalking her for months. It's not been just the parcels, he's been following her, photographing her, frequenting her favorite places along with her, and she never had a single fucking clue.

Tears spring to her eyes, thick and unbidden.

"I am calling Agent Queen," Curtis says resolutely, walking away from her numb body as she tries to get her breathing under control. "But first, I am closing these fucking curtains," he spits angrily and she is glad for his thinking, because right now, nothing makes sense in her own head.


	9. Chapter 9

Holding the photos in a frozen hand, Oliver has a hard time reigning in his rage, his eyes soaking in the shot of Felicity's smiling face, frozen in time by the hidden camera as she talks animatedly to Curtis, her hands flying mid-air as they excitedly dance in illustration to her words. She is so lovely. So fucking lovely and innocent and unassuming. Minding her own business. Unsuspecting that a sick deranged serial killer has his spying eye set on her, recording her every step.

It's utterly disgusting, and acid churns in Oliver's stomach at the very thought.

The hand holding the photo in a steely grip falters, its tremor shaking the photo to a point where it's difficult to recognize the details, and Oliver has to channel all of his self-restrain not to blow up from the rage he feels inside, because seriously, how the fuck_ dare _he?

But even as he asks the question, he knows the answer. He knows he's asking as a friend, an invested person, not an impartial investigator. He knows that to a mind of a deranged serial killer, this is merely a lovely break from his other, possibly even more pleasurable activities of murdering young girls that are too close in image to his ultimate goal.

And Oliver knows, he should probably be thankful for the status Felicity holds in his mind. The pedestal the Slasher has apparently put her on is indeed a singular and unique protection his fixation with her offers. Despite how very horrifying this all is, he has not yet tried to harm or directly approach her, he's even kept his nearly sacrosanct distance to the object of his longing. In his own, sick way, he is worshiping her. Courting her.

That fact alone, should put Oliver's mind to ease, because it means she is not on his list as the next girl he's planning to murder in cold blood. But it doesn't. God, it doesn't, not one bit. If nothing else, it rises his level of anxiety even further.

Because there's a logic to his madness, and all of this, it leads somewhere in his deranged mind, to an ultimate goal, a grand finale Oliver is too scared to think about even if he hasn't though about anything else in the past couple of weeks.

The Slasher has not yet made any direct move towards her, hasn't harmed her – physically, that is – but that could easily change in a heartbeat, that one is clear to Oliver. People like him, they are highly unstable and rarely predictable, and it puts Oliver on edge, because he knows, with absolute certainty, that Felicity is the Slasher's end-game.

And that frightens him beyond reason. It puts that much more pressure on him to keep her safe. And ultimately fuels his guilt for not being able to expand that protection to all of the girls in danger of being harmed by Slasher's hand.

Taking a deep breath, Oliver puts the photo – now sealed in an evidence bag – back to the pile of the other ones, gritting his teeth so hard his jaw nearly snaps, before turning his back to the kitchen at last.

His eyes instantly seek out Felicity's lonely, small figure hunched on her couch and drawn in on herself, her arms protectively wrapped around herself even as occasional tremors run through her whole being.

He wants nothing more than to cross the space and offer her some comfort, _wants it_ _so badly,_ but there's still one of the two plainclothes policemen assigned to her with them in the room and he needs to stay professional while they wait for his colleague and John to check out the roofs of the nearby buildings the Slasher probably used to conduct his stake outs.

The remaining officer, the one currently standing next to the kitchen island clenching his jaw and throwing dirty looks at Oliver is pissed at him, though Oliver doesn't particularly care. He gave the man a harsh dressing down earlier, because really, why the fuck to even have a detail on her when the Slasher still can get to her like that? But the young, obviously hot-headed man – Officer Ramirez – wouldn't have any of it, arguing back to Oliver, rather cheekily, that he could hardly vet just about anybody entering and exiting her building without raising suspicion, not to mention annoy the hell out of the residents. And as far as Officer Ramirez knew, delivering packets and flowers to the doorman of a large upper-town building complex full of housing apartment was hardly a suspicious activity.

He's got a point there, which however, only serves to infuriate Oliver even further. But which also reminds him to stop by downstairs later and thank Mr. Alvarez for finally doing his fucking job. Felicity will love that, Oliver is sure, a tiny smile tugging up his lips despite everything just at the thought of her possible reaction. The smile instantly falls, however, when his eyes wander back to the woman in question, who's had huddled on her couch ever since the police arrived, silently letting the officers work. There's a cup of formerly steaming hot tea brought to her by Curtis twenty minutes ago still sitting untouched on the coffee table in front of her, her eyes gazing unseeingly in front of her, lost in thought.

His heart aches for her, but he can't go to her yet, can't let his personal feelings rule over his professional judgement at the moment, and that sucks. And where the fuck is Curtis when you need him? Why isn't he sitting down with Felicity, offering his silent support?

He doesn't have time to dwell on that, because Diggle's calling him a couple of moments later and asking Oliver to get his ass to the windows currently hidden behind heavy drapes.

The shuttering of the windows has thrown the whole loft into near darkness, just a couple of smaller lamps currently illuminating the huge space, and its only now that Oliver realizes the huge impact the light from the enormous ceiling-floor windows has on the vast space. All the blinds have been drawn so nobody can look inside, and when he finally steps around the curtain, he's nearly blinded by the early afternoon sunlight hitting his face.

Oliver squints into it, pressing the phone to his ear while his other hand shields his eyes, seeking out Diggle's huge frame standing on the roof of the building across the street that's a couple of stories higher than Felicity's.

"_Yeah, this is the spot,_" Diggle confirms, and despite not seeing from the distance, Oliver knows his partner is momentarily looking at the photo of Oliver and Felicity sifting through evidence the Slasher has taken.

"Anything?"

"No. Just a roof like any other. Officer Sloan is currently trying to get a hold of the building's manager to ask for all the possible ways to get up here, noticed or unnoticed. The unfortunate bit is that this one doesn't have a doorman service, just a regular buzzer system downstairs. So anybody can get inside so long as any of the residents lets them in. Which we both know is easily enough to do."

Oliver silently curses under his breath, eyes slightly watering as he tries to keep sight of Diggle's figure against the starkness of the afternoon sun.

"Okay. Have one more good look around and then come back."

"Right." With that, Diggle ends the call.

Oliver sighs, walking back around the curtain only to be shrouded by darkness that appears even starker now, and he has to take a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim light again.

When his eyes adjust again, he notes, with no small amount of elation, that Curtis is back, sitting next to Felicity and quietly talking to her, one of his huge hands around her shoulders as he draws her close.

There's a flash of something hot the runs through Oliver, a longing to replace the man at her side, and it's something Oliver can't afford to look closely at. So he turns from that particular sight and makes his way back to Officer Ramirez, who hasn't moved an inch from where he's left him standing at the kitchen island.

"They found the roof spot the photos have been taken from," Oliver says to Ramirez, though he makes sure to talk loud enough for Felicity and Curtis to hear as well. "No evidence, nothing suspicious though."

He finally offers a look to Felicity, a mixture of guilt and infuriating helplessness seizing him. "I am sorry, but for the time being, you'll have to keep your blinds closed at all times, Felicity."

His voice is soft, too soft maybe, if Officer Ramirez's smirk is anything to go by, and he could kick the intrusive jerk in the nuts, but instead, he forces to keep his eyes on Felicity, his gaze instantly drawn to the column of her throat as she heavily gulps, offering him nothing but a single nod before her eyes shy away again, her gaze once again growing unfocused on the yet untouched mug of tea.

Anger surges deep within him and Oliver has a hard time keeping his face straight, because it's all so damn wrong. All of it. The vacant, hurt look haunting her beautiful face, the darkness the loft has been submerged into, a loft Oliver knows as nothing else but always filled with light. Even the reason for his presence here, at this particular time of day, without the intimacy of only the two of them as her face stretches into a gentle smile as he keeps her company while they share lunch together. Even the stupid tea she has yet to drink instead of her favorite coffee…it's all so damn wrong.

He hasn't seen her in days, has busted his ass back at the office, putting together their cover story, painstakingly collecting the evidence from archives and databases her ingenious yet sadly illegal algorithm was able to pick out within a couple of hours, and this is definitely not how he envisioned seeing her again after the past couple of days spent apart.

And wow, _wow_, that's a thought.

_Spent apart_.

Like they belong together otherwise, and that's definitely a dangerous thought to engage in. Oliver pushes this particularly sensitive line of thoughts back down, concentrating on the task, _his actual fucking job_ – he thinks with a stab of shame – of catching the son of a bitch doing this instead of lusting after the object of the man's obsession.

_Who's the fucking creep now, huh?_

Forcing himself to ignore the unpleasant churning in his stomach, Oliver returns his attention back to Officer Ramirez and the bags of evidence resting on the island holding all the photos – sans the one Diggle took to use as a reference to find the spot Slasher has used as his stalking spot.

Minutes trickle by in uncomfortable silence till finally, thankfully, Diggle is back. They collect the evidence bags and discuss the last details with Ramirez and Sloan about their stake-out duties outside of Felicity's building and then, the police officers and Diggle making their way to the door, ready to leave.

Which makes Oliver falter and stop his own steps, his eyes wandering once again to Felicity's lonely figure still perched on her couch. She hasn't even stood up to see them off, Curtis taking on the role, quietly exchanging pleasantries with the men as they are about to leave.

"Diggle," Oliver says quietly, drawing his partner's attention. "Gimme five?" he requests, his eyes quickly flashing to Felicity and back for his partner to understand. Out of the corner of his eye, though, Oliver sees Officer Ramirez turn his head back at his words, a knowing grin that would under some circumstances pass for an outright leer flashing across the man's face, to which Oliver shoots him a fiery glare of his own, feeling the sudden urge to hit him and leave a matching scar across the Officer's other eye, because _really_?

There is a shaken woman sitting back there on a couch, lost and terrified, because her whole life has just been upturned, _again_, her privacy horribly violated by a deranged serial killer. A woman in desperate need of some support and a little pep talk, and all the man thinks about is an FBI Agent trying to score point with a pretty girl?

Oliver is not naïve. He knows what Ramirez and his partner believe about him by now – and knowing how the SCPD just _loooves_ to spread gossip among its ranks, probably already the whole local police force. Since Ramirez has first-hand seen Agent Queen come and go so often, visiting Felicity Smoak's apartment with nearly religious regularity during the past couple of weeks, he is sure there are rumors about the nature of their relationship, something the officers are viewing as definitely _not_ your typical investigator and victim slash person-of-interest relationship.

It's easier to sell at his own office, since Felicity has been taken on as a consultant, but Oliver is sure, the SCPD has its own idea of how Oliver is spending his frequent visits at Felicity's. And truth to be told, Oliver couldn't care less if they talk trash about him behind his back, so long as the rumors don't circulate back to Felicity. Which is exactly what's currently happening, and he won't stand for it.

Throwing one more scalding look at Ramirez, Diggle quickly steps in while throwing Oliver one quick, warning glance and a nod before turning and literally ushering the two officers outside.

The door finally closes behind them and Oliver lets out a heavy whoosh of air, letting all of his frustrations go in that one sigh.

He hasn't even realized how very on edge he's been these past couple of days, and if nothing else, his exchange with Officer Ramirez showed him exactly how unbalanced and on the verge of snapping he's been. Which is not really him, and it throws him somewhat. He definitely has to get a grip.

Forcing himself to take another calming breath (anger has never resolved anything), he steps back into the loft, making his way directly to Felicity's side, rumors be damned.

Her eyes rise to him when he comes closer and as he walks around the coffee table to join her at the couch, the look she gives him feels like an instant punch to his gut.

She looks utterly devastated. Defeated, almost, and it tugs at his heartstrings.

"Hey," he utters and he plops down heavily next to her. Curtis has made himself scarce again and this time, Oliver is glad. "How are you holding up?"

She gives him a tiny, broken-hearted smile. "I've been better."

"I can imagine." When she doesn't offer anything more, he prods a little, needing to make sure she's going be okay before he leaves her. He doesn't want to push, but he is pressed for time. Without a conscious thought, one of his hands finds her own clasped together in her lap. "What is it, Felicity?"

And isn't that a stupid question? Its _everything_, its her whole fucking life at the moment. It's the absolutely unconscionable violation of her privacy, it's the knowledge that somebody – _a serial killer_ – has had her in his crosshairs for the past couple of _months_. It's the uncertainly of what is yet to come. _It's everything_. And yet, he feels like there is even more, and it has in gut tightening.

"I just…it's stupid," she murmurs, her eyes filling with sudden tears.

"Felicity, talk to me, please?" he urges, suddenly desperately _needing_ to know.

"I feel guilty," she whispers barely audible. "So unbelievably guilty. On top of everything else."

His eyebrows draw together in confusion. "Guilty? God, why?"

"Because I am sitting here, feeling sorry for myself for having my privacy violated, _for months_, when there are so many dead girls who don't have the luxury to be alive and feel sorry about anything that's ever happened to them. It's just so unfair, you know?"

A single tear falls, and Oliver's heart breaks for her. "Oh, Felicity."

He is fucking lost for words at that, his mind frozen, but at least his muscle memory is intact, for his arms instantly reach out, enveloping her shoulders with one arm and drawing her close in a side-hug. Her head falls under his chin, her hair tickling him, her distinctive fragrance, a mixture of the shampoo and perfume she used mixed with something purely Felicity hitting him, momentarily transfering his mind back to that one time he fell asleep on her couch, waking up to the same wonderful smell attacking all of his senses, and all of a sudden, it's too much and too little and he absolutely needs to take a step back and put some distance between them because he is not sure he won't do something that would ultimately validate Officer Ramirez's previous suspicions.

Gritting his teeth together, Oliver squeezes her shoulder one more time in support before forcing himself to pull his arm from around Felicity, putting distance between them once again.

"I am sorry," he says lamely, but she's already nodding and taking a little distance herself, quickly wiping away the couple of tears that have escaped her eyes.

"It's okay," she sniffs, visibly pulling herself together and plastering on a brave smile for him that makes him oddly proud and just a little heart-broken. For the sake of pretenses, he returns it, although he feels anything but like smiling.

Feeling the urge to leave on at least a little positive news, he tells her, "Me and Digg, we are close to having all the necessary evidence gathered. In fact, we're about to present it to Lyla either tonight or tomorrow at the latest. Then we should have more leverage and more resources, as well as more evidence to fall back to. Hopefully, getting our hands on those old files, we will find something that will help us find this guy, and then it will finally be over, okay?" His eyes are beseeching her to believe him. He desperately needs to believe it himself.

"Okay," she replies in a murmur.

"Just hang in there a little while longer, okay?"

This time, her answering smile is genuine, as she gives a small nod. "You got it."

"And don't you dare feeling guilty," Oliver presses, watching the slowly renewed spark in Felicity's eyes dim again as her gaze falls down from his, her teeth gnawing at her lip in that nervous way of hers. "Please," he can't help but add, his hand once again covering hers and squeezing, because he apparently just can't stop touching her.

"Okay," she concurs at last, straightening her spine as she finally looks directly back at him, and it's a big victory, because Oliver can see she means it. His own answering smile is genuine this time as well.


	10. Chapter 10

"This is big, guys," Lyla proclaims after a long silence, pulling her reading glasses off her nose, her gaze still glued to the numerous case files they pulled and neatly ordered in front of her. "Actually, it's more than big. This is gonna cause a ripple effect that will be felt up to the highest places."

Oliver curtly nods, clenching his jaw. He is aware. He was very aware of the fact the moment Felicity has presented him with her findings. They just uncovered a serial killer the likes of the Happy Face Killer or the BTK, a man who has been murdering young girls throughout the whole States for the past _decade_ without anybody noticing the relation.

"How is Ms. Smoak holding up? Is she aware of all of this?" Lyla points to the files.

"Yes. Actually, she helped us put the facts together." It's a version of the truth, a small portion of it that Oliver viewed into the story he was going to spin. Maybe he shouldn't even have done that, keeping Felicity completely out of the picture, but he just couldn't find it in himself to keep all the credit for himself somehow.

"Oh. And how exactly did Ms. Smoak help you figure this out? I though she didn't have a clue who the Slasher is or what his relation to her was," says Lyla suspiciously, rising one perfectly shaped eyebrow at him. She is not stupid. Not at all. However, Oliver knows she has no way of knowing about Felicity's hacking past, so he feels fairly confident there is no way this can be tracked back to Felicity. Oliver is ready to offer Lyla the version of events they've agreed on with Digg, but the man himself beats him to it.

"It was actually Felicity's idea to broaden our search and look for more possible victims. She was concerned about the jewelry she received not being identified as belonging to any other of the Star City victims like the locket."

"And you want me to believe you didn't come to the same conclusion yourself, Johnny?" Lyla asks skeptically, a hint of impatience for being taken for a spin in her voice. Diggle just calmly looks at her, a slow smile stretching the corner of his mouth. "Of course we did. But she was the first one to voice the idea when discussing the facts, so she takes the credit. She also suggested to go as back as ten years, since the Slasher is the same person as her stalker, which hinted his connection back to her Lisy the tech Whiz days." It's a simple explanation, but it seems to pacify Lyla.

Or – and this might be a more believing story – their boss _and_ friend just doesn't _want to_ dig deeper. Which is exactly what Oliver and Diggle were counting on and _thank God for Lyla_, Oliver sends a silent prayer of gratitude to any deity out there.

"I still can't believe nobody has caught onto this," she murmurs at all, the gravity of the situation hitting back full force.

"You and me both," confirms Oliver. "We will need to have all the evidence from these cold cases shipped to us ASAP, Lyla," he adds urgently and Lyla nods, a grave set to her shoulders.

"On it right away. We will also have to update the team and I will have to notify my superiors. This will eventually circle back to Waller, you know that, right?" she warns them and Oliver nods. He's aware. Not happy about it – nothing concerning Amanda Waller's direct involvement can be considered happy news – but he will deal.

"The thing is," Lyla continues thoughtfully, "I think this might actually be good news to her." There is a note of bitterness entering her voice and Oliver gives her an incredulous look.

"Good news?" he growls.

"Yeah. Just try to see it from her perspective as the boss. The case just got bigger, more prominent, more high stakes. And it ties an uncovered serial killer with the stalker case of a prominent person. A case she herself has personally assigned to us. It has all just doubled its appeal, and since Waller is the one who pushed to solve Ms. Smoak's stalker case in the first place, she will gladly take the credit for a work well done."

Oliver grinds his teeth at Lyla's words, but before he can say anything they might regret later, Lyla beats him to it, reading his anger all too easily. "Which doesn't necessary have to be a bad thing. She might put the case under tighter personal scrutiny, but firstly, she'll have to agree we're doing a good job so far by blowing this case wide open and secondly, more importantly, she will be willing to allocate any necessary funds. Surely you realize that with the case growing so big overnight, we will need to broaden the task force as well."

Again, Oliver was aware of that. And again, he doesn't like it. More people on the case means more scrutiny, bigger decision-making pool and less oversight. Less control and he won't be able to keep things on a tight leash as he has so far.

"Again, don't worry. You and Diggle will still be in charge. But you know we need more manpower. There are now a _dozen_ murder cases involved, and we will need to go back and forth between the local PD's for evidence as well as our own outposts. Quite frankly, it's going to be an administrative mess, you get the picture."

He does. He hates it. But it can't be helped. So he focuses on which can. "We need that evidence, Lyla," he repeats, drilling his single point across.

"I am aware. I will put it into motion ASAP, I promise you. But in order to do that, we will have to bring the whole task force up to speed on this because the stakes have just gone over the roof here. I will handpick the agents to bring on the team. Now, meanwhile, I want you to prepare a presentation of the newly uncovered facts to hold to the whole team this afternoon. Are you ready to do that?"

He nods without skipping a beat.

"Good. I will send you the names so you can decide which tasks to assign to whom following the presentation, including gathering the evidence. I would suggest Alena Whitlock as the liaison between us and the local PD offices. She is young but quite tenacious, and she's proven invaluable in dealing with police departments throughout the country, pushing them to make good and quick on their promises. But the decision is, of course, up to you."

Oliver nods again, instantly agreeing with Lyla's choice. From the handful of times he has worked with Agent Whitlock, he's got to know her to be very good at what she does. Many people underestimate her, because she's young and female and isn't ashamed to show her assets, as well as the fact that she's quite outspoken, lacking a social filter which proves to be too much for some. A little bit like Felicity, Oliver just now realizes with a start. What Oliver likes about Alena though is that she cuts the bullshit and is highly efficient, delivering results when some merely talking about getting them. She knows how to push hard but still stay surprisingly civil and even subtle about getting what she wants, not affronting or intimidating the local police officers with her FBI badge. Which might be the biggest asset right now.

Lyla's sharp voice brings Oliver back from his musing. "Prepare the presentation, I will get you your people."

"How many are we talking about?" asks Diggle.

"Well, apart from the two of you and your team of five senior agents that's been on the case so far, I am bringing about a dozen more people on board." Diggle whistles at that. "You know it's standard procedure in cases this big, Johnny. You'll need the manpower. That's why I need you to get people up to speed."

They know how it goes. It's not their first rodeo. However, this just complicates things. It's good to know they have resources, but to have so many people involved…it makes Oliver uneasy.

"There is one more thing to discuss." He says, straightening his spine. "Felicity Smoak's safety. The stakes have just been upped, big time. We can't just leave her in the PD's care. The Slasher has slipped by them too many times already."

"I agree. With these new facts, there will be no problem with allocating resources and having her security upgraded to our own agents and our own surveillance, twenty-four seven." Oliver nods, something slightly easing in his chest. He just trusts his men more, there is no question about it. Still…it doesn't feel like enough. Especially since the Slasher can still get to her, if not personally, then passing creepy messages and stalking her.

"What about moving her to a safer location?" he suggests, to which Lyla and Diggle give both a collective sigh that grates on Oliver's nerves.

"Did Ms. Smoak express a desire to be removed from her home? Does she feel unsafe there?" asks Lyla matter-of-factly.

"No," Oliver hisses through clenched teeth. In fact, Felicity has shot him straight to hell herself upon proposing moving her to a safe house. But that doesn't mean she is right in her stubbornness to stay in her apartment. Moreover, all it is about, Oliver thinks, is nothing but her misplaced tenacity not to be intimidated by the Slasher. But she should be, any reasonable person should be absolutely terrified. He knows he is.

"Then I suggest we keep her where she is."

"She's not safe there, Lyla." He tries one more time. "Not as safe as she would be in a safe house."

"That has to be her decision though, Oliver, don't you think? And from what Johnny tells me, she is not willing to move."

Oliver throws a dirty look at his snitch of a partner. Diggle doesn't bat an eye at his murderous look, though.

"Moreover, Oliver, you know it suits us just fine as well. Because tell me, Agent Queen, since _you_ are the profiler here, what will the Slasher do once he realizes we've moved his holy grail away from his sight and hid her?"

His teeth grind together as he impatiently growls, "It's not _her_ fucking job to keep him happy and content. She's not a bait to be dangled in front of him."

"I agree," replies Lyla coolly, unaffected by Oliver's angry tone. "That's why I am assigning such heavy security to her. But moving her elsewhere is a whole another thing. There are other possible victims to consider here," she reminds him with a raised eye-brows and Oliver's eyes fall shut because she's just drawn the ultimate argument he can't fight against.

Doesn't he know it, doesn't he see all the dead girls behind his closed eyelids every night he falls asleep? Isn't he afraid of every single phone call to tell him there is another body dumped somewhere?

Still. Keeping Felicity in the direct line of fire, so much in the open and utterly vulnerable, does something to him, grates at him in a way he didn't know was possible.

"Look. Unless Ms. Smoak herself voices fears over her safety in her own home, we will leave things as they are. Are we clear?"

He doesn't respond, won't validate Lyla's words with an agreement. It would be a lie anyway.

"Agent Queen, do I have to be concerned about any possible conflict of interest here?"

That statement has him back and sharp pulling out of his petulancy. He gazes at Lyla, searching her eyes, wondering what she knows, or at least, how much she suspects.

"Lyla," Diggle warns in a low voice, but she ignores him, pinning Oliver with a sharp look. "Look Oliver, you are one of our best. And I know you care. But if this case proves too much to you, if you're finding yourself too close to it to look at it objectively, then I suggest you step back and remove yourself from it." It's a warning and a piece of friendly advice all wrapped in one, before Lyla's whole demeanor softens. "There would no shame in that, Oliver. We all find ourselves in situations from time to time that feel a little more personal to us than others," her eyes cut to John and Oliver knows what she is hinting at. Personal entanglements are messy and screw with your head as well as judgment.

Truth is, he _is_ biased. He _does_ care about Felicity. A lot more than he is supposed to. But at the same time, that's exactly the reason why he can't simply have her case handled by anybody else. He absolutely needs to be the one.

So, he straightens in his spot, puts on a professional face once more, forcing Felicity's teary face from last night to the back of his mind. "No, Director Michaels. There is no personal interest going on in here. I was just trying to put all options out there. I do respect you and am fully behind your decision."

_Even if he doesn't like it. _

Lyla gives him a small nod. "Glad to hear it. Now get out of my office, Agents, I've got a few more decisions and phone calls to make."

xxx

Things at work are… well, hectic and chaotic are the first words to come to Oliver's mind when he thinks about it. After giving his presentation, there is an immediate uproar of disbelief and astonishment at the latest development followed by a bustle of activity as his new team was getting itself acquainted within their new roles in their newest high-profile case.

Then there are the reactions from other departments, some department heads taking part at the presentation, curious what it is that has Director Michaels call in an impromptu meeting of a serial killer's special task force while tripling its size in the span of mere hours.

It is… well. The news is indeed huge, to say the least, and it's spreading across all departments like wildfire.

The Star City Slasher just got promoted to the national level, the duration of his killing spree extending from less than a year to a whole decade. Having these seemingly unrelated cases click together like pieces of a puzzle amounts to a great deal of work, and in the next couple of hours, Oliver's is patted on the back about a dozen times by peers and superiors alike, being congratulated on his spectacular work on this case.

Which makes him feel that much worse. There is nothing to be celebrated or congratulated on in his eyes. If nothing else, this should have been caught upon a long time ago. Not to mention how the misplaced praise and acclaim he and Diggle are getting is leaving an especially foul taste in his mouth, because all of this was possible thanks to one incredible bright woman who he couldn't even name as the rightful source and who is currently being terrorized by the very same man they are all trying to catch.

All while they don't even have a name. So instead of basking in his sudden undeserved popularity, Oliver turns to his newly established team, pouring his hopes into Agent Whitlock, stressing to her their absolute need to get their hands on the evidence files from the local PD's, starting with Shelby Crowley's case.

To his great relief and satisfaction, Agent Whitlock seems to catch on the urgency and severity of the matter fairly quickly and upon leaving the office late in the evening, Oliver is more than confident he's leaving the work in the right hands.

Next day goes around in the same manner and it's only late afternoon the day after that when Oliver finally realizes that the reason for his edginess and utter restlessness is not the workload itself, but his lack of contact with a certain blonde. He sighs, utterly bewildered at how and when this exactly happened, but he can't pinpoint the moment where he went from forgetting about the world due to getting lost in his work to forgetting about his work by getting lost in thoughts about Felicity Smoak.

What he knows, though, is that he hasn't seen or talked to her for over two days, and it starts to get on his nerves, his needs to see her and make sure she is okay un urgency he can't ignore any longer.

With a clear intent, he therefore decides to leave work early – for his standards – and makes a quick stop at his favorite Mexican place, picking up an assortment of foods he knows he himself as well as Felicity will enjoy.

Two hours. He just needs two hours of her company and her presence to find his center again. By now, he knows that a single smile from her can recharge his energy to work through a whole night, if needed. And he needs that. It's probably not healthy. Definitely not normal. But he needs it to keep his sanity as much as he needs his next breath.

xxx

Life is just not giving him any breaks these days.

This was supposed to be a respite from him. Visiting Felicity was just as much about making sure she was okay as it was about him unwinding, regrouping. Making sure what he was working towards.

It looks promising too, once she opens to door to him, the smile stretching across her face blinding him with its warmth, causing a breath he didn't realize he was holding up until now leaving his lungs in a silent whoosh. He enjoys it, this moment of pure content and elation, when there is nothing else in the world but her smiling self.

Then he steps into her apartment and starts to notice the smaller things. Like the nervous twitch of one corner of her mouth. Or the dark spots smudged underneath her eyes that speak of very little rest. Her whole body is buzzing in restless energy as she bustles around, talking nonstop while running between the kitchen and living room, taking out plates and filling up glasses and asking question he has no time to give answers to before she's already asking new ones, never waiting for an answer.

The whole loft is bathed in artificial light, and although it's already dark outside, one can't see it the progression of natural light, because all the curtains are drawn tightly shut.

Felicity is clearly showing signs of unraveling at the seams. She is nervous and jittery, and completely unfocused. She is happy to see him, there is no question about that, but she's also unable to concentrate on anything, her mind running a mile a minute, one second telling him about a new idea for a computer program, the next about Curtis's wedding anniversary closing in and the plans he has to celebrate with his husband. She is all over the place, stands up to run to the kitchen only to detour back without retrieving anything. She can never stay on one topic and her food's falling from her fork back onto the plate on one too many occasions. She has a hard time to even stay focused on what he is telling her.

Oliver doesn't mind her lack of concentration on interest where he is concerned, not one bit. He can only imagine what it's been like for her for the past couple of weeks, and especially the past couple of days. She barely talks to anybody, she doesn't leave her apartment, can't even let natural light into her home anymore. She can't go out, can't meet her clients, can't go shopping or see a movie or take a walk. Her whole life is on a standstill. It's only understandable it makes her miserable and jittery, her being cooped up in her home while the thought of a serial killed at her heels is never too far away. All of this? It's a natural symptom of the disease currently rampaging through her whole life.

And his heart aches for her.

Because he can't promise her an easy or early resolution. It's only putting one foot in front of the other. And it might still get worse before it'll get better. He honestly doesn't know what to do to make it better. All he can do is push his people at work to get what they need and show up at her place in a desperate attempt to brighten her day at least a little, offering some company other than that of her single colleague who leaves her at afternoons to go home to his happy marriage.

So Oliver changes things up. He doesn't take his lunch hour anymore. He takes early evenings instead, showing up at Felicity's with dinner. Sometimes they talk about the case, theorizing as he updates her on the newest development. Sometimes they just talk about silly, meaningless stuff, or they discuss her work for a change. Sometimes, when she is feeling especially down, they nearly don't talk at all. They sit silently side by side, letting the quiet sounds of the television wash over them, both too deeply lost in their thoughs.

It's lasts nearly a week and Oliver's team manages for only half the evidence cases being shipped over to their SC office, his agents painstakingly starting to sift through boxes upon boxes of collected samples and case files. It's tedious work that doesn't bring any new information about the identity of the Slasher, but Oliver doesn't let it deter him. Objectively, he knows how these things take time. No murder case was resolved in a night.

Still, every evening he visits Felicity and has nothing to show for, he feels like a bigger failure, letting her down.

It's slowly eating down at them both. They both intentionally don't talk about the other thing that's been grating on Oliver's nerves, his skin flushing with sweat every time the thought crosses his mind.

The Slasher's been quiet. Eerily quiet for the past week, and that is _not_ a good sign. Oliver should be glad there's been no new victims, but the idea of the Slasher being still out there, plotting something, possibly bigger than yet before, has him in knots.

xxx

Oliver's really fucked up this time.

His uneaten container of Chinese food that's been sitting on the coffee table while he paces Felicity's apartment has long gone cold, but he doesn't care, because this time, it won't be as easy to appease his sister's anger by sweettalking her or to buy himself into her good graces with absurdly expensive gifts.

His phone is glued to his ear as Oliver tries to calm and explain himself to a rightfully infuriated Thea shouting at him across the line, because this time, he's really, _really_ screwed up; by completely forgetting about his sister's birthday, glossing over the day without any acknowledgment or even a single stupid phone call.

He doesn't begrudge her for throwing her sharp accusations at him, he fully deserves them. But what guts him is the note of hurt and utter disappointment in him he can clearly hear in her voice.

With a last angry insult, Thea hangs up on him with a distinctive click, letting Oliver blink stupidly before finally realizing what has just happened. For never – _ever _– before, no matter how angry she was, had his sister hung up on him. _Never._

Defeated, he shuffles his feet back into the living room in a daze, plopping his suddenly heavy body back onto the couch.

"Uh-oh. Thea?" Felicity asks in concern and understanding, rubbing her hand up and down his arm soothingly when Oliver keels forwards, shoulders hunching while his hands rise to cover his face in a defeated gesture.

"I forgot about her birthday," he whispers though his fingers, momentarily too ashamed to look at his companion.

"Oh, frack. Oliver…"

"I can't believe I forgot her birthday." He says more clearly, his voice rising with anger at himself. "In all of her twenty-two years, I've never forgotten about the birthday, _never_. not even when I was stationed in Kandahar, even then I begged my Commanding officer to allow me to use his satellite phone to wish my baby sister a happy birthday." Oliver is suddenly dangerously close to crying, feeling like the worst brother and biggest let down at the face of the earth.

"I am so, so sorry, Oliver," Felicity murmurs, and he can hear it in her voice, her own remorse. It's not merely compassion, it sounds like she's actually apologizing.

"It's not your fault," he utters back shrugging his shoulders, dismissing her worries, because this has nothing to do with her. It's all on him. He should have kept track. Should have set up a damn phone alarm or something. This... there is just no excuse. A single day in a year. He can't remember a single fucking day that means a great deal to the person he loves most in the world.

"It kind of is, though," Felicity whispers in a guilt-ridden voice, her gentle fingers burning through his dress shirt where they're rubbing across his shoulders. His ears perk up at that, because what exactly is she saying?

Pulling his hands from his face, he gives her a quizzical look. "What do you mean it kind of is your fault?"

She's biting her lip, her eyes suddenly vulnerable and full of remorse and he doesn't like that look on her, not one bit. "Well, if you didn't spend your whole time either at work, working _my_ case, or_ here_, looking after me, you wouldn't have forgotten," she says and there is such conviction in her voice, it renders him momentarily speechless.

"Wha-at?" He blinks stupidly at her, momentarily lost for words. "Felicity, that's completely- No. Just no. This has nothing to do with you," he finally manages to get out, but even as he says it, he can see his words are not sinking in and God, could this get any more complicated?

"It's just… I should have paid attention more closely. I knew her birthday would be coming up, but I did nothing to make sure I wouldn't forget. But that's on me and my forgetting has absolutely _nothing_ to do with you. Also," he adds on a sigh. "I am afraid this is just the tip of the iceberg. This argument with Thea… it has been a long time brewing. It just came at the worst possible moment."

"What do you mean?"

"What I mean is-" Oliver starts but stops. Why the hell is it so hard to talk about this? He gulps, tries again. "I didn't find enough time to spend with my sister for years now. Ever since I returned from overseas. I've been…" It's so hard for him to admit this, after all this time, aloud and to Felicity of all people, but it's the truth. "…hiding in my work of sorts. Ever since I came back from abroad, ever since joining the FBI. It was just easier to hold my distance than deal with people closest to me. Thea was the only person I actually tried to keep a close relationship with after returning, but even she doesn't really understand the nature of what I've been through."

"The war, you mean," Felicity murmurs in a gentle voice, her fingers burning through the material of his shirt.

He nods, a tight fist clogging his throat. "That. But even beyond that. It's also about the nature of what I do _now_."

Felicity's eyebrows scrunch at that, indicating she doesn't follow him. He can't blame her. It's really hard to comprehend, when you look at it like that. To willingly push away and keep secrets from the one person you are supposed to love.

"You have to understand, Felicity, I love my sister. She is the single best thing in my life."

He can see that startles her, something vulnerable appearing in her eyes, and it's almost too much for him to see it directed at him, so he looks at the table in front of him instead. "I've not always been completely truthful with her, though. Coming back from war… it changes you. And it was easier to put on a façade of the old Oliver for my family than try to explain what I went through. Shortly after I joined the FBI, went through the training. To be honest, it was more than most veterans accomplish once coming home. Being able to regain old relationships, return to a normal daily life routine, maintaining stable work, it's too much for most."

Felicity silently nods, understanding coloring her eyes, deepening the beautiful shade of blue, and Oliver suddenly realizes that she _does_ understand. She deals with veterans and their problems almost daily, is familiar with their situation, with the physical as well as psychological needs and worries that come from returning from war. Her company, her pro bono work, it's all concentrated around army veterans and people who underwent traumas trying to return back to normal life. Her company tries to offer them back at least a little of what they'd lost, suffering phantom pain due to a severed limb, the inability to walk because of a crushed spine, hearing loss suffered when a bomb went off just a little too close. Even now, Felicity's eyes are shining nothing but compassion and understanding, and Oliver can't look away, mesmerized while greedily soaking all of it inside him.

_Felicity understands._

And for Oliver, it's like he takes the first free breath of his life. It's not so hard to talk about his sister and their complicated relationship anymore, because he knows, Felicity won't judge him, won't hold it against him that he stepped away from her or his family to a certain degree in an attempt to protect them from the darkness inside him.

"When I first applied to Quantico, Thea was beyond excited. And proud. She was just a teenager but she supported me through the training and was so thrilled once she found out I would be stationed here, in Star City. But I never really told her what I do. She knows I am a Special agent, an investigator. But I always glossed over the details of my position, never talked cases I work on with her. She knows I spend long hours at work and that I am way too dedicated to it, but she probably thinks I do tax evasion or corporate crime or something like that… And I've never really tried to disapprove that assumption. I just… " His eyes fall away from her to focus on his fingers which are nervously twitching on his knees.

"Oliver…" Felicity sighs. There is a reprimand but also sadness in her voice. And even a hint of disappointment and that carves him up alive. "Why on earth didn't you tell your sister what you do?"

_Because the world is an ugly place? Because he didn't want her to worry about him? Because he didn't want to taint their time spent together by stories of murders, psychopaths, child abusers and serial rapists? There are way too many reasons and Oliver knows neither fully validates his decision of keeping this part of his life separate from his sister. The lie… even if just a lie by omission, has just been going on for so long it felt harder and harder to put Thea back on the right track. _

"I felt that by keeping the two worlds separate would somehow shield her from the things I daily deal with," he utters in a feeble voice at last.

"Oh, Oliver," Felicity murmurs, one of her soft hands covering his, calming the fidgety movements of his fingers, before her thumb starts to draw soothing circles over his skin. Something tight clogs his throat at her gentle touch and tone. "So Thea has no idea? She has no idea who you've been tracking down for the past couple of months? The reason why you've been working yourself to the ground lately?"

"No."

"Oliver!" Felicity cries is surprise, despite that it should be clearly known by now that he's kept his sister completely in the dark about _everything_. Her tone is now openly full of reproach and maybe even a little bit of frustration and he feels momentarily ashamed by how his weakness being called out by her like that. He hates the idea of being a disappointment to her, for any reason. He can't even look her in the eye.

"Oliver," she calls his name again, gentler this time. "How can you expect your sister to understand the graveness of your job, or the current situation, if she doesn't know what kind of weight your job carries? What hangs in the balance if you don't give it your hundred percent, and the responsibility that rests upon your shoulders? How can she be proud of you if she doesn't know that you literally try to make the world a better place and protect the lives of women like _her._ Like me." She adds on a whisper, her fingers twitching over his hand. "She has no idea what's at stake, the world you carry on your shoulders. I am sure she would view your lack of free time at the moment in a whole different light if she knew that you are not in fact neglecting your relationship by choice but by sheer necessity. I am not telling you to share all the gory details with her, but think about it, just for a moment, from her perspective. I mean, how is Thea supposed to feel if she thinks you let her birthday slide in order to work overtime on some while-collar criminal's money laundering?"

And he hears her, he gets it. She is absolutely right. He's been shielding his sister for too long, has been using smoke and mirrors describing his job, never really revealing the true nature of his cases. She thinks that he's merely a workaholic, cold and detached in dealing with his own family, maybe partly by being damaged by his time spent overseas, but not really making any effort to get better, get closer. And the truth is, he's always preferred it that way, because if felt easier for Thea to believe _that_ than have her worry about the monsters he was daily dealing with to make the world a better place.

The worst part is, Oliver still doesn't have a solution to that. He doesn't know how to fix the broken relationship with is sister other than he desperately wants to. He just knows that he's missing his sister, missing the closeness and tight bond the two of them shared before he left for the army. He'd like nothing more than to have his sister back, but he doesn't even know where to start. Doesn't help that right now, he has absolutely no time to start. Adding Thea to his huge pile of problems at the moment seems just too much.

"You know what? I have an idea!" Felicity suddenly blurts out, her hands shooting into the air excitedly before she freezes, apprehension crossing her face and dimming the light in her eyes somewhat as she bites her lip. He's instantly drawn in, intrigued beyond reason as to what goes on in that brilliant mind of hers.

"What idea?" he slowly asks.

"Well-you can say no. It's rather… wow, I really haven't thought this one through…" She closes her eyes, letting out a breathless huff of laughter before turning the loveliest shade of pink. It's beyond adorable. "But what if… since you are spending so much time here anyway, eating dinners with me, I mean, spending time talking about, you know, the case-"

Oliver is momentarily glad he doesn't hear any hint of a complaint or a reprimand in her voice.

"-I was thinking… What if you invited your sister to dinner? Here, I mean. I know it sounds crazy, but hear me out. That way, you wouldn't have to feel like you are neglecting work, since you'd be technically spending time on the case or checking up on me. And on the other hand, Thea gets to meet me, one of the people you are busting your ass trying to protect from a very dangerous man." The tiniest shiver runs through her at that and Oliver's pulls one of his hands from underneath her warm fingers and puts it on top of hers, sandwiching it between his own.

"You could finally come clean to her about your work, maybe even explain about the current case a little, if you'd feel comfortable, just a little. Just so she gets an idea of how time consuming and attention demanding it is, but also so she understand that when you don't spend time with her, it's not because you don't want to, or that you don't care enough, but that you literally can't because you are trying to help the people of this city stay safe. Ultimately, make _her_ safe as well."

Something in her words causes him to feel like a little boy receiving praise from a favorite teacher, and to his horror, he feels his cheeks grow warm. Oliver is momentarily thankful for wearing a semi-beard, because it helps him mask the flush he's sure is currently spreading across his cheeks like wildfire.

"The best part, of course," Felicity continues with a small, sweet grin, oblivious of his current state of being completely amazed by her, "would be that you don't have to go out and take your sister to some elaborate dinner date to make up for your blunder, because let's face it, we both know you'd just spend the whole evening worrying about work anyway, guilt-tripping yourself about '_abandoning your duties_'," she says with a huff and a slight eye-roll, framing her last words with air-quotes, and Oliver would find that adorable, if he wasn't so stunned at how well she apparently knows him. It's unsettling and yet comforting at the same time.

And it's a brilliant idea, it really is, but…

"Felicity, that's very generous of you. But I can't possibly impose on you like that-"

She huffs again, waving his concern away. "Don't be silly. You can and you will. I've been cooped up in this apartment for weeks behind drawn blinds, I haven't met a soul in person, outside either FBI agents, police officers, Curtis or delivery guys. I am actually _dying_ for some normal company. Not that- not that your company isn't normal, it's just-" she's blushing again and he secretly loves it, before she suddenly grows more serious, more solemn.

"Unless, of course, you find it too weird," she motions between the two of them uncertainly, "And then there is of course the thought of bringing your sister to this place, which might not be the smartest or safest idea. I mean, the Slasher is still out there, duh, so maybe that's your real concern, which, if that's the case, I'd totally understand, no hard feelings. I mean, this is your _sister_." She is rambling now, and it's cute and so _her_ that it steals Oliver's breath away. "And of course, it's not like we-" she stammers and he can clearly see how quickly her mind's spinning out of control with all of her worried thoughts, "I just...forget it. I mean…I apologize. I just thought it would be a nice way for you to see your sister, since it's _me_ and _my stupid case_ that's kind of been hogging all your time and I already feel bad for it, but if I've overstepped and it's too much…"

"Felicity." Her name falls from his lips on its own, a gentle whisper of enchanted laughter really, but she doesn't notice, plowing ahead and digging a deeper hole for herself.

"-or if I am mixing professional with personal, I apologize-"

"Fe-li-ci-ty." That finally gets her attention. "I think it's a lovely idea, very thoughtful and extremely generous, especially under the current circumstances. And yes, if you don't mind, I'd actually really like to take you up on your offer."

"Oh," she whispers, her lips forming an adorable little O. "Yeah?" she asks hopefully despite the uneasiness still lacing her words.

"Yeah." He reassures her again with a nod, observing as her whole body sags in relief, a big whoosh of air leaving her lips before a beautiful, easy smile blossoms across her face.

"Okay, it's settled then."

"It's settled then," he confirms once again for good measure. "Though the food's on me."

She grins at that. "Deal."


	11. Chapter 11

She's nervous. Which is stupid, really. Because this is not about her. This is not a social visit, at least not one for _her_, per se. She is merely offering Oliver a convenient neutral place to meet with his sister, who he hasn't seen in weeks due to him spending all of his time with her working on the Slasher case.

She's merely doing him a favor. That's what friends do.

So why in hell does it feel like one of the most important dinners of her life?

She knows why. The tiny part of her brain that remains brutally honest with herself despite her tries to shut it down knows very well, but Felicity absolutely refuses to acknowledge it. Nope. Not gonna happen.

Besides, it's just his sister. Right? Thea. The woman she's already heard so much about it feels like she already knows her. Which, unfortunately, only serves to make Felicity that much more nervous. Because if something is painfully obvious, it's that Oliver absolutely _adores_ his baby sister.

So naturally, yes. She wants to make a good impression.

As his friend.

Despite that this is _totally_ so not about her.

Oliver is bringing dinner – something he insisted upon – along with his sister, which, unfortunately, leaves Felicity with nothing to do but worry about the meeting itself. Which is absolutely absurd, right?

At least Thea agreed to meet at all. That's a win. From what Oliver has told her, the only reason why his sister agreed to even see her brother after the train wreck that was her birthday was her burning curiosity about this secret '_friend_' at whose place they would be meeting. And despite the slight awkwardness, Felicity has to bite her lip to suppress a smile upon remembering the rather impressive shade of red the otherwise oh-so-collected Agent Queen turned when he told her about his sister's obvious fascination with said friend.

Fluffing up another pillow on her couch just to have something to do, Felicity's amusement with that memory lasts only a couple of seconds before the reality of why they are really doing this here, at her apartment, crashes down on her.

Right.

Because there's a serial killer fixated on her and while she can't leave her apartment, Oliver is working himself to the ground, splitting his focus between trying to catch the Slasher and personally see to her wellbeing while she desperately clings to her last vestiges of sanity.

That really puts a damper on any thoughts of how this meeting is a common social call between friends. Because the reason of why they are doing this is not because they are friends meeting new friends – despite having become those – but because circumstances dictate they stick together for safety. Not to mention the fact that the topics to be discussed aren't anything but light or fun.

Oliver plans to tell his sister what he's been hiding from her for so long, the nature of what he truly does for a living. And Felicity feels equally honored to be a part of it as well as nervous at the prospect, because she really wants this to go well for him. If nothing good ever comes out of this, of them meeting like this, under such dire circumstances, she at least wants him to have this – to be able to rebuild the close bond he once shared with his sister and one he so desperately craves.

So yes, she is nervous. But she doesn't let it show once there is a soft knock on her door to alert her before it gently pushes open with the scrape of his borrowed key. Oliver is the first one to carefully walk inside, a young and utterly gorgeous petite brunette in a sparkly golden dress topped off by a stylish camel coat hot on his heels. She looks like someone who just walked straight out of a fashion magazine as she curiously looks around, pulling off her coat and passing it over to her brother.

Felicity feels suddenly – desperately – underdressed. The combination of her dark jeans and a simple soft white sweater feel absolutely ordinary and dull in the face of Thea Queen's impeccable styling choices. Thea's long hair is tied at the nape of her neck in an elegant yet simple bun, eyes dark and sensual with heavy yet absolutely perfectly applied makeup, whereas Felicity has simply let her hair fall loosely around her spectacled face in soft waves. Felicity herself didn't even make the effort to wear her contacts, keeping her makeup at a bare minimum and applying just some mascara and a little lipstick. She is not even wearing shoes, for crying out loud, her feet peaking from underneath the dark fabric of her jeans clad in her favorite pair of socks covered with tiny ice cream cones, the pattern she's found so cute this morning when she put them on suddenly feeling utterly childish and stupid.

She doesn't have time to ponder her absolute lack of fashion sense she's suffering under lately, because Oliver is leading his sister directly towards her, making the introductions with a soft smile stretching across his handsome features.

"Thea, this is Felicity. Felicity, this my sister, Thea."

Felicity extends her hand, offering Thea a warm, slightly timid smile, willing her nervousness not to show as Thea clearly takes the moment to seize her up and down before finally offering Felicity her own hand to shake.

"It's so nice to meet you, Thea." Felicity manages to get out, her voice a little higher pitched than usual. "Oliver is talking about you so often, I feel like I already know you," she blurts out as an afterthought.

"Really?" Thea drawls, rising one perfectly manicures eyebrow at Felicity before turning her head to her brother with no small amount of surprise while a somewhat sly smile stretches across her face.

"You know, that's funny, because my brother hasn't mentioned you to me _once_."

"Thea," Oliver says in a low, warning tone and Felicity watches, utterly mesmerized, how a whole silent conversation passes between the siblings in a fraction of a second.

"Well, of course he didn't," Felicity finds herself saying with a little shrug of her shoulders, which is obviously the wrong thing to say, because the look Oliver gives her is more than a little disapproving, his eyebrows pulling together in incomprehension, while Thea simply looks surprised at Felicity's bluntness, her mouth falling open.

"I-I mean there would be no reason really for him to mention me to you," Felicity stammers out, her nervousness increasing tenfold. "I am a nobody." Okay, wrong thing to say, if the two matching sets of open mouths gaping at her now is anything to go by. Felicity closes her eyes and visibly gulps, trying to find her scrambled thoughts. Please, God, not one of her rambles again. She tries again.

"I mean, obviously I am _somebody_, duh!" She laughs nervously. "Just not to Oliver. Not like that. I mean me and Oliver, we've known each other for just a couple of weeks and the nature of our relationship is…" she flounders with the right words, because she has no idea what he has told his sister about his reason to be in her apartment, about the very reason to even _know_ her, "strictly professional." She finishes somewhat lamely. "We are colleagues, of sorts, working towards a common interest for a recent working assignment. Just that. Co-workers, yeah."

Wow, that doesn't sound nowhere near normal even to her own ears.

"What Felicity is trying to say-" and finally, he speaks up, albeit a little too late, for his time to help her out was like ten _sentences_ ago. "-is that the reason I've been so busy lately is because I've been working on a very difficult case Felicity is so graciously consulting on. As a civilian investigator."

"Oh," Thea says easily, but there is something calculating in her look as she sizes Felicity up and down, and the blonde isn't sure she likes the scrutiny.

"Yeah. And since I get to spend so much time here at Felicity's, working, she very generously offered her gorgeous space for us to catch up."

"If she is a work colleague, then why didn't we just meet at your place or mine?" asks Thea.

And that's a fair point. An excellent point, in fact, a very logical point. One to which Felicity doesn't have the proper answer, outside that she knows for a fact that the only thing Oliver can currently focus on is the Slasher. Thinking about anything else has him tied up in knots, including, sadly, spending and enjoying some quality time with his sister. Which only makes her feel more guilty about the whole thing.

"He's sort of babysitting me," Felicity blurts into the way-too-long silence. Thea's eyebrows rise impossibly high before she gives Felicity an utmost skeptical, incredulous look, her soft browns cutting between her and Oliver while silently waiting for further explanation. Which – sadly – Felicity's mouth willingly gives right away.

"Somebody's after me. Like, a stalker. Who is a very dangerous and deranged person on top of that. And Oliver's got assigned my case and we've been trying to figure out who they are and since I've been receiving some disturbing mail and late-night stalker visits, he's been so nice to keep a close eye on me. And I am sorry, I truly am, for stealing your brother from you like that. I promise it was not intentional and the moment we get this guy, you'll have your brother back."

The look of incredulousness doesn't disappear from Thea's face. She merely switches her focus to her brother, waiting for a confirmation and possibly an added explanation, because what Felicity is saying apparently doesn't make much sense.

Oliver just gives his sister a tiny, grave nod and Thea's gaze returns to Felicity, doing a silent, calculating re-assessment of the other woman that has Felicity squirming. Thea's must finally come to some sort of a conclusion that makes sense in her head, before she slightly cocks it to the side to say not unkindly yet with clear amusement coloring her words, "You are quite something, Felicity, you know that?"

"Yes, she is," Oliver immediately confirms in a smooth voice, his tone low and gentle, and the look he gives Felicity almost makes her go weak in the knees.

"Now," Oliver claps his hands enthusiastically, breaking his gaze away and turning to his sister, "Are we going to eat or do you plan on grilling Felicity some more, Speedy? Because let me tell you, I am quite starving."

'_Speedy?'_

xxx

It's utterly surprising, but the evening goes surprisingly well after that. Thea is sweet, charming and easy-going, and clearly _loves_ to tease her brother. For Felicity to have the privilege sitting here and watching the sibling's dynamic – which is simply spectacular and absolutely hilarious as they rib each other mercilessly throughout dinner – is utterly fascinating.

It takes Oliver a while to start on the topic they are here for, of course it does. But halfway through their pork vegetable hun tun dumplings, Oliver finally finds the courage to breach the topic, outlining to his sister the case that's brought him and Felicity together, ultimately spilling the beans of the true nature of his job.

Felicity has to admit, she is quite impressed at just how well his sister seems to take the news, the note of pride in her voice unmistakable as she asks about some of Oliver's most memorable cases. Something inside of Felicity melts at the look of sheer humbleness and elation on Oliver's face once he realizes he finally doesn't have to hide the truth from his sister anymore.

It all goes way too smoothly, a natural, almost easygoing flow in their conversation over the delicious food from Felicity's favorite Chinese place. It all lasts up until the point when Thea starts to dig a little deeper into Oliver's current case, inquiring about the connection between Felicity and her stalker slash the infamous Star City Slasher, and before she knows it, they are entering a private territory Felicity was not at all prepared to discuss.

_Thea is indeed a very sharp observer_, Felicity thinks not for the first time that evening. Maybe it's genetics? Huh…that's a thought… But before her mind can elaborate on that, Thea is already pushing further, a deep frown and an analytical look on her face as she turns her focus to Felicity.

"Okay. But why is this guy after you, again? I mean… specifically you."

Oliver and Felicity exchange a look, having a silent conversation of their own as to how much to tell his sister. They've already tried to skirt this question, but Thea always circles back to it. _It's your call,_ Oliver's intense gaze seems to be telling her, and she is grateful for his consideration of her feelings on that matter.

Felicity takes a deep breath, finally ungluing her eyes from Oliver's to regard his sister. "Well… we don't know for sure, yet. But we think it might be connected to my past somehow."

"Your past?" Thea asks, her eyebrow pulling together in confusion.

"You mean like… he's someone you once knew?"

Now that's a really tricky question.

"It's a little more complicated than that," Felicity offers. "See, my pool of suspects could be a little larger than your average Joe."

"Why? Were you a homecoming queen or something?" Thea laughs at her own joke, making Oliver wince.

"Speedy…" he quietly reprimands, his voice pleading for her to behave.

"What?" she looks between the two of them. "You are really weirding me out. I mean, how bad is it? Are you a secret Olsen triplet or something?"

"Not quite," Felicity murmurs, her cheeks growing slightly pink. "Yet surprisingly close enough," she murmurs under her breath, exchanging a surprised look with Oliver. Thea is indeed sharp and perceptive. And all of a sudden, Felicity has had enough with the secrecy. It's not even such a big deal, and their silence only makes the matter appear to be a bigger of a deal than it really is.

"I was sort of a child star-" she stops, crunching her nose a that. She never liked that particular title, even if it is, objectively speaking, accurate. "-back in the day. I had a fairly popular show as a kid, called Lissy the Tech Whizz. It was on air for a couple of years, while I was eight through thirteen. However, I was away from the public eye for the last decade. But now it looks like this guy, the Slasher… his notes and messages sort of hint back to that part of my life. It looks like he is-" she has to gulp a lump in her throat at the mere idea of all the dead girls, and when she pick up, her voice is slightly shaking, her pulse spiking in shame that she has to confess her personal connection – her personal responsibility for it all – to no other but Oliver's very sister, "It looks like he's been killing these girls because they remind him of me, but then gets angry that are not."

"Excuse me, what?" Thea says breathlessly, her eyes growing huge.

Felicity already starts to regret revealing so much, seeing how the news clearly upsets Thea, and she immediate shoots a concerned and apologetic look to Oliver, wondering if she's overstepped.

"I am afraid it's so, Thea. Now you can see why we are so concerned-" Oliver gently says, extending his hand to cover Thea's resting on the table, trying his best to diffuse the situation, but his sister pulls her hand from underneath his, waving his words away with a dismissive and impatient hand gesture, her sole focus directed on Felicity.

"No, no. Not _that_! Rewind back."

When they both give her a confused and concerned look, Thea lets out a partly exasperated, party excited squeal directed at Felicity, raising her arms towards the blonde and waving them excitedly. "You are _who_ now?!"

When they still don't comprehend, Thea huffs in impatience, as if it's Felicity and Oliver who are the slow ones in the room, and maybe they are.

"YOU are _Lissy the Tech Whiz_?! I mean, you used to be _her_?" Thea squeals excitedly.

Felicity gives a tiny, slow nod, still rather dazed to where this particular conversation has turned.

"Is this really what you took away from all we've just told you, Speedy?" Oliver asks incredulously, and maybe a little offended, but Thea waves him off again like he's an obnoxious fly, her sparkling eyes still glued to Felicity.

"Oh my God! I can't believe that it's you!" cries Thea in astonishment, her eyes huge and shiny before she throws herself back against her seat, back hitting the wood of her chair with a distinctive thud. "It's incredible that I finally get to meet you- I mean… I used to _dream_ to meet you, like seriously, I had a full blown religiously-devoted-fan crush on you! I was so desperate, I even asked mom and dad to try to hire you for a gig at my next birthday party, but then you just went off air, disappearing just like that-" Oliver's sister is on a mighty ramble now, one that could easily match one of Felicity's more infamous ones, and that thought makes Felicity's head spin a little. Thea's words and the implications behind them finally sink in after the first shock of Thea's enthusiastic explosion of gushing – there is just no other word for that – finally starts to wear off, but Thea's on a roll.

"I was so disappointed when Lizzy went off air without any warning that I cried in my room for a week! I didn't even want to celebrate my eleventh birthday after that!"

"Wha-at?" Oliver's breathless, slightly incredulous voice manages to cut through Thea's torrent of words. "I thought you were angry with mom and dad for not wanting to get you a pony!"

Thea just waves her hand dismissively at him again. "Oh, Ollie, you are so naïve! That's only what I told you to get you off my back. You remember? It was your first year at the Academy, you called me in the afternoon to wish me a happy birthday, but I was so heartbroken about Lissy, I came up with a lie about the pony. I mean, how did you expect my eleven-year-old self to explain the depths of a true fangirl love I had for a fictional character back then? Of course, I told you it was about the freaking pony!"

Catching herself, Thea immediately turns to Felicity. "Not that you are a fictional character or anything, I was merely implying you were portraying one on tv, despite the same name and certain things blurring the lines between real and fictional, but I was eleven, so I couldn't really grasp the reality of that-" before turning back to her brother, and Felicity feels like watching a very intense tennis match without being aware of the rules.

"Fun fact though, it was dad's idea to propose the pony in order to make me stop crying." Thea turns back to Felicity with a smug grin. "I got the pony too, so I guess a '_thank you'_ is in order."

Felicity's head… spins. There is just too much information for her to start unraveling here. Is this how people feel when she sets out on one of her own rambles? Because she is truly starting to feel sorry for them, for more than just one reason. Clearly, they cause the recipient to grow really confused and get them a splitting headache on top of that. She shoots a somewhat lost look at Oliver, but he is clearly still in his own shock about the bombshell his sister just detonated on them. And from the looks of it, the young woman is not finished yet.

"This is so crazy! You know, for a long time, I didn't even realize Lissy actually had to grow up and you know… live somewhere, go to school, get a boring grown up job, buy groceries and do laundry, because your life back then looked so absolutely amazingly extraordinary. I don't know, I guess I expected you to grow up and be like a famous rocket scientist flying to moon every other day while chasing bad guys under her secret identity at night… oh but wait, I _do_ remember now! There was this tiny article I read about you last year about you growing up and starting you own tech company in Star City and I remember thinking – wow, she is a regular person after all, and wow, she even lives in the same city as me and she grew up to be a tech guru on top of that, so good for her, yay! Girl power and all that, because let me tell you, Felicity, you deserve it! I used to _love_ your show as a kid! Well, love might be too small a word- I used to _worship_ you! I even had mom buy me a Tamagotchi like yours Billy-"

Felicity's stomach drops at that, her eyes instantly cutting to Oliver, his shocked expression mirroring hers. He tries to halt his sister with a quiet _'Thea'_, but she doesn't seem to notice, passionately plowing on. "You were my role model! And not just mine, me and my friends kept a regular _Lissy the Tech Whiz_ book club after school. In fact, the reason I took science later in high school was because of you! You – I mean Lissy – sorry, is this too weird? ...anyway, Lissy made me fall in love with science and math. Trust me, the only reason I can do the books at my club by myself today is because you made algebra fun for me! Me and my friends wrote to you for an autograph once, though that was a short time before you went off air. Speaking of which, I always wondered-"

"Thea," Oliver chastises his sister again in a firmer tone of warning, noticing the look in Felicity's eyes and mistaking her shock for uneasiness. "I think that's enough. Maybe you should lay off a little. Your… _enthusiasm_ is starting to sound rather disturbing to me, so I can't imagine how uncomfortable your sudden girl-crush must make Felicity feel."

"Oh," Thea immediately shuts up as she cuts suddenly worried eyes to Felicity. "Gosh, I am so sorry, Felicity. I got carried away…I-I-" she stammers a little, "I'll just shut up now," she finishes lamely, rising her hand and making a zipping motion across her mouth for good measure.

But it's not awkwardness or worry Felicity's is currently overwhelmed with, quite the opposite.

…_you were my role model…._

…_.and not just mine, me and my friends had a Lissy the Tech Whiz book club after school…._

…_you made algebra fun…_

An intricate ball of different feelings is currently tightening her chest, but the prevailing one is – surprisingly – _gratitude_. Felicity is – to put it simply – deeply touched. Thea's words have touched something in her that has lain dormant for so long, managed to open a door she kept tightly shut.

For years, she didn't let her time as Lissy associate with anything else but the horrible fallout at the end. She let herself forget how much she actually loved doing her show, how she enjoyed interacting with hosts and scientists and guests. How much fun it was to be allowed to conduct her own experiments and get her hands on the newest gadgets and tech to present to her viewers and fellow enthusiasts.

To top it all off, to hear she as Lissy had such a profound impact on young girls, inspiring them to love science, love math and physics and books… it forms a blaze of light inside her that nobody will ever take away from her.

To know that she touched a person, has changed a life, inspired somebody, even if it were only Oliver's little sister – of all people – it would have been enough. But Thea spoke of others, of friends and peers, and that… it simply leaves Felicity speechless, gives back meaning and joy to the time of her life she cut out from herself and stored in a separate part of her soul as something apart from her. Thea's words evoke good feelings and fond memories, and for that, she will forever be grateful.

Because Thea Queen has just given Felicity a part of her soul back.

Her hands shake slightly on the table, tears forming in her eyes, because the feelings are just too much for her, causing a physical reaction as an outlet. Somewhere in the background, she hears Oliver's worried voice, his quiet inquiry whether she is alright. She feels his gentle touch as one if his big, warm hands closes around hers in comfort, but Felicity doesn't have a response, not yet. However, she lets the flames of light currently merrily licking at her insides show in the form of the biggest smile she is capable of, her other hand sandwiching his between her own, squeezing reassuringly back.

"Thank you, Thea," she simply says to the younger woman, who is still unsure and looking deeply uncomfortable and apologetic. But there is nothing to apologize for and Felicity wants Thea to know that. "It's just been really long since I remembered Lissy through somebody else's eyes, and it's been wonderful."

At their prevailing silence, Felicity gives a little watery bark of laugh. "I am okay you two, I swear. Just a little overwhelmed to be honest, at the surprise of discovering I've had such a huge impact on you and your friends," she admits to Thea, putting all her genuine gratitude in her voice before her eyes cut back to Oliver, willing him to see the truth behind her words in her eyes. It takes a moment, but then there's the slightest shift in him, an acceptance as his shoulders sag in relief and he gives a small, gentle smile in return.

"So, Thea," Felicity directs her attention back to his sister, her cheeks coloring slightly the somewhat mesmerized and definitely curious look Oliver's sister is giving their still intertwined hands.

"You're welcome. About the pony."

That breaks the spell, the dark-haired girl leaning back and letting out a deep bark of laughter.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Oliver is quite shocked and more than a little surprised at how smooth the evening goes so far. Him and Thea do their usual thing, ribbing each other mercilessly, their former rift clearly forgotten. It's one of the qualities he loves about his sister – she can work herself up into a vicious fit in a matter of seconds, but she's never been able to hold a grudge for long.

Even Felicity seems to enjoy herself, after digesting her shock concerning the news that his sister was a massive fan of her childhood career. To call it a shock for Oliver himself would probably be too small a word, and he still has a hard time wrapping his head around it. Around the fact of how their lives, his and Felicity's, have been – in a way – intertwined already so long ago, through his sister no less. He would have known about _Lissy_ – there is just no doubt about that – had he stayed in his childhood home with his parents and sister and not got sent off to Military Academy. And it amazes him how he was so very ignorant of her mere existence that had such a profound impact on his baby sister, only to meet her a decade later, under such dire circumstances.

He wasn't sure about bringing Thea here tonight. Wasn't sure about her meeting Felicity and even more, laying all his lies and omissions bare for his sister to see. He was afraid of her anger and possible rejection, but he shouldn't have worried. It seemed all that his sister ever wanted was his honesty. And it made him feel humbled, and somewhat angry with himself, because it took him to meet Felicity Smoak and listen to her advice to finally come clean with his sister and start to repair what's been damaged between them for the past couple of years.

One look at Thea now and their natural bond is back, he and his sister once again in sync as his sister silently throws a covert glance at Felicity and gives him the slightest nod of her head in suggestion to allow Felicity to step away from the conversation and give her time to recover and get her bearings back after releasing the news of Thea's former girl-crush.

So the two of them resume talking about anything else, a little more about his work, about Roy – whom he seriously needs to get to know more – about Verdant. They allow Felicity her own pace to rejoin them, which – to Oliver's surprise – doesn't take too long. And before he knows what's happening, Felicity's already extracting damaging evidence from his sister about his less then stellar high school shenanigans with Tommy.

She is openly laughing at his sister's witty, cheeky remarks, more times than less at his own expanse, but so long as it brings a smile to her face, Oliver won't complain. Okay, he will, he has to, for pretenses sake, and for his own pride, because he just _has to_ get Thea back for some of the stories she shares, but otherwise, Oliver is having a blast, all the while feeling closer to his sister than he has in years.

And it all has to do with the woman currently sitting across from him, a most captivating smile gracing her lips as she raptly listens to Thea's rich recount of Oliver's and Tommy's senior year that – according to Thea – caused their mother's necessity to start dying her hair a decade earlier than she naturally would have.

Opening up the second bottle of red, Oliver notes how Thea and Felicity grow more and more comfortable around each other as the evening progresses, a sight that equally warms and excites him for a reason he doesn't want to look too closely at.

So naturally, he should have known. Of course, he should have known the questions would pop up, sooner or later. It's Thea, after all. The girl's never circled around a topic for too long, never minced words, not even as a child, and it's one of her less favorable qualities in Oliver's eyes, because he is the exact opposite, the master at evasion. Fake it until you make it and always wear your cards close to the vest.

He should have known better where his sister is concerned, should have been more vigilant, more prepared. He's just… forgotten. For a moment there, with the sight of Felicity's laughter and his sister's familiar ribbing, he's forgotten that with Thea, the topic of their parents is never too far away. There is not even room to prepare as his sister goes directly for the guttural with the signature Queen nonchalance, all fake innocence and natural nonchalance.

"So, Ollie. Mom and dad have been asking about you. Since Christmas is only a couple of weeks away, Mom wanted to know if you'd show your face this Christmas at least, or if you were _working_-" Thea makes air-quotes, "again."

Oliver's face tightens with her words, his jaw clenching as he regards his sister with a mixture of apprehension and warning, because they are definitely entering a dangerous territory and she very well knows it.

"You know I don't do Christmas, Thea," he says in a tight voice, nipping the topic right in the bud.

"Wha-at?" Felicity's surprised voice cuts through the air, an airy, disbelieving sound, and Oliver's eyes fall shut in frustration. For the first time that evening, he wishes she was not there, if for nothing else than to witness the argument that is sure to follow.

"Who in the world doesn't _'do'_ Christmas?!" She asks with an incredulous airy laugh. "I am Jewish and I still _love_ to celebrate the season and enjoy all the festive decorations and winter spirit, even despite the fact that in California, it's like a gazzillion degrees in December, but come on, who cares, it's Christmas, so of course me and mom mom start a fire in the hearth! And I just loooove giving and getting presents, even though, admittedly, I don't pull them out from underneath the Christmas tree, but did you know Jews give each other presents for Channukah? At least my mom does… now that I think of it, maybe it's only _our_ version of it? I don't know…we were never practicing religion properly..." she hums contemplatively, narrowing her eyes while she ponders her words, and under any other circumstances, Oliver would have found it adorable, but he just can't enjoy the moment. Not with the current topic on the table.

Thea turns to Felicity, picking up the conversation and answering her female companion, even though Oliver knows the words are addressed as much to him as they are meant for Felicity. "I don't think it's the holiday itself with Oliver. I think it's more the company." She finally turns back to her brother.

"And trust me. I hear you. I mean, _I. Hear. You_. They are both insufferable, most of the time, but they are our _parents_. And it's freaking Christmas. And to be perfectly honest with you," Thea says, pulling her hands across her chest, back hitting her chair heavily, "I find it quite unfair to have to suffer through it all by myself each year."

His jaw clenches and he intentionally doesn't look at Felicity, whose intense gaze he can feel burning a hole into the side of his head.

"Trust me Thea, nothing good would come out if it. We would just end up fighting again."

"So is this how it's going to be? Forever? You meeting them twice, maybe thrice a year in a controlled public setting at official functions you can't weasel your way out from, instead of actually sitting down with them and talking about your issues?"

"I am not saying it's ideal, Thea. But it's the way it is."

"Bullshit," Thea scoffs.

"Wait…? Do you really see your parents only at official functions?" there is clear surprise in Felicity's tone, incomprehension even, and he hates it. He absolutely hates it.

"Trust me, Felicity, it's better for everyone involved," he reasons.

"You can't honestly tell me you still hate them after all this time," Thea huffs in exasperation.

"I do not hate them!" Oliver stresses, his patience quickly slipping away.

"But you haven't forgiven them," Thea argues stubbornly and suddenly, Oliver has had enough.

"Thea," he warns with a growl, and this time, there is no room for discussion. He is really through with this conversation.

Thea's face grows softer, her voice lowering as she refuses to take the hint, trying one more time. "Look, I know, Ollie, okay? I know, I was there."

"Then you of all people should be the one to understand best why things are as they are."

"They miss you, Ollie. And they are genuinely sorry about how things turned out."

"Turned out?" he asks disbelievingly. "Thea, they disowned me!"

"Yeah, but not like… permanently…" she hedges. "You said it yourself, you needed the wake-up call."

"I did," he admits, pressing his eyes shut in frustration, his jaw clenching painfully. "That's not what my issue with them is."

"Then what is it?"

He explodes.

"It's the way they went about it, Thea! It's the whole fucking way they've _raised us_," he spats the words angrily. "They've spoiled us, spoiled us rotten. All while they've never given us any guidance, any roadmap as to how to navigate life as decent human beings, they just expected us to grow into responsible adults all on our own. And when that didn't work out, when I didn't turn out the way they expected me, they just pulled the plug, taking _everything_ away, abandoning me to fend for myself!"

"They didn't know how to get through to you anymore," Thea cried back, her voice shaking with emotion. "You were doing alcohol, parties, drugs… they had no way to reach you."

"Aaah, yes. So the only way to get their son clean our billionaire parents came up with was to cut me off from any money or safety net I've ever known while forcing me of enlist in the army, all the while silently – because we wouldn't want the public to know, now would we – making arrangements to formally disown me if I didn't behave like the son they expected to have instead of the screw-up they got stuck with. All the while knowing perfectly well that sooner or later, I'd be finished with the academy and ultimately deployed overseas to fight a war I didn't even agree with. So no, Thea. There is nothing there for me left in that mansion."

There is deadly silence after that. He never talks about it. Not with his sister, not with anyone.

And this is precisely why.

"I am still there," Thea murmurs quietly. "And you left me there with them. I was still there when suddenly my brother, the only person I felt close to and could rely on, was suddenly gone. And I know, you had no choice back then. But you came back. And you made no effort to mend the fences, and I was left to deal the fallout by my own. I know they are not perfect. I know they did horrible things, I know they made poor choices. But I could really use your help here, Ollie, because in spite of how things currently are, they are still our parents. And they love us. In their own, selfish way, they still love us. And they miss you. And I think, despite everything, I think you miss them too."

And the most disgusting thing was, she was right. He still missed his parents. They were…. well, they were his parents. You had just one of those. And somewhere deep down, he still craved their approval. Their affection.

He was just so damn angry with them. So disappointed, a part of him still that nineteen-year-old spoiled brat suddenly stripped bare of any safety or affection he's ever known, his very family.

But maybe Thea was right. Maybe he was selfish too. He's left her there, his baby sister, dealing with the situation on her own. It mustn't have been easy for her either, being the only child remaining in their childhood home, trying to play the nice kid while having to defend her own choices, like running a club instead of going to college, having a boyfriend from circles her parents no doubt didn't approve of. Moira and Robert Queen were always cold and manipulative in their love. Their expectations were high, yet there was zero guidance throughout the years. Only judgement. But despite all that, in their own way, Oliver knew they've loved their children. And Thea was right. Maybe it was time to grow up. To let go of the grudge he's been holding on for so long.

"Oh my God. I never realized." Felicity's quiet, shocked voice cuts through the heavy silence. "So you are… Oliver Queen. As in… _the_ Oliver Queen, the son of Star City's royal billionaire family, _the Queens_?"

His eyes fall shut because no, this just definitely didn't happen. He just didn't have this conversation with his sister in front of Felicity.

"Wait, you didn't know?" asks his sister unhelpfully. Felicity just shakes her head.

"It never came up," says Oliver and yeah, it's totally lame, cause if they've done more than enough of anything in the several weeks, it's been talking.

"Well, now you know," Thea says bitterly, "Only, these days, Oliver would give an arm and a leg to _not_ be associated with us."

He sighs. "Thea, it's not like that…"

"Could have fooled me," she says coldly. Her tone doesn't sit well with him.

"Well, what do you expect me to say?" he asks in a tiny, mirthless laugh. "It's been a _decade_. We've never talked about it-"

"And whose fault is that?"

He forces himself to take a deep breath at that. Arguing with Thea… it doesn't solve anything. And she's got a point. It's just…

"Ok. I admit, it's my fault. _I_ didn't want to talk," he offers at last.

"Well maybe now would be the perfect time for you to pull your head out of your ass, Ollie, and start."

"Fair enough," he admits. "I just don't think Christmas is the right time to start mending fences," he hedges, and he shouldn't have, cause his sister instantly latches onto that little sign of weakness.

"No, actually, I think it's the perfect time. It's not like you have to buy Christmas gifts for dad or sings Carrols at the piano with mom-"

"Thea, please. I've explained the current situation to you." His eyes cut shortly to Felicity and back to his sister and he's momentarily ashamed to use her and her predicament as his shield against his sister's pleas, but he honestly can't have put _that_ on his plate as well.

"But Ollie-" she tries one more time, but already aware she's losing the battle.

"Thea, not now. We are guests here. I don't think Felicity is appreciative of us airing our family's dirty laundry in front of her. So I ask you again, _please_, drop it for now."

And this time, there is no doubt he's finished on the subject as he holds his sisters gaze. Thea gets it at last, huffing in her seat in defeat as she angrily stabs her sticks into her last half-eaten dumpling.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It takes Felicity ten minutes of babbling and embarrassing herself to get the frozen conversation going again. Thea, bless her, is not one to hold on a grudge for too long, so she easily slips into an easy conversation with her about her work, showing interest in the more technical details of Felicity's work. Felicity in turn goes the extra mile and makes the effort to bring out a model of one of Helix's bio-prosthetic hands, powering it up to explain to Thea how the piece of technology operates.

Oliver though, that's a completely different story. Ever since their argument about his parents, he's been quiet and brooding, not joining in on their conversation, keeping on the angry growly attitude despite being the one to point out to his sister it was impolite to argue over familial issues during a visit.

It's not that Felicity begrudges him his brooding, though she has to say, even as she points out this and that to an utterly mesmerized Thea, her mind is still kind of blown away by the information that's been shared tonight.

She had no idea that Oliver, Agent strict-by-the-book Queen, was in fact the heir of Star City's most elite families owning a billion-dollar enterprise. She never made the connection for some reason, not being a native to the city and never a big fan of gossip magazines. Still, everything that was said… it paints a bleak family picture.

She thought she had it hard, with her dad leaving, with her family breaking apart. But as she listened to Oliver's sudden outburst, hearing the pain of abandonment and rejection still clear in his voice, she now realizes she's not the only person struggling through parental issues years after.

No family is perfect, she should know. But how Thea and Oliver have painted the picture, a young man losing his way because there was just no structure or guidance to his life only to be then tossed aside when he didn't fulfill his parent's expectations, that shakes her to the core.

She has her mom. She always had her mom, even through the most difficult times. Her mom is the absolute constant in her life. Her biggest supporter. Her biggest cheerleader. She could never be a disappointment to her mom. In fact, she was Donna Smoak's single greatest achievement in life, as her mom often reminds her.

That never changing constant forms a living pocket of light breathing inside of Felicity's chest, something she can always draw strength from. The unconditional love of her mother.

For Oliver though, something must have irreversibly broken when his parents chose to cut him off. Something that made him turn away from them, never really processing what happened. And she feels sorry and sad for him. Because despite having both parents in his life, he doesn't have them at all. They are as far removed from him as her own father is from her, wherever he might be right now (okay, in Seattle, probably, at least he was the last time she's checked).

It shouldn't be like this, though. No child should feel abandoned by their parents.

"Sorry, I need to pee," Thea grins at Felicity shily, bringing her out of her thoughts. "Where's the bathroom, please?"

"Oh, yeah, through there and down the hall, first door on the right."

"Thank you," Thea says, leaving the room and a deafening silence behind. Felicity sighs, rising to her feet and walking back to the couch where Oliver is still sitting, his face scrunched in a painful grimace, a sad broody look sitting over his features.

Something inside her breaks at that sight. No matter what age you are, what you achieve in life, how much therapy you get or how far you've come in life, when it comes to children and parents, you'll always feel like the ten-year-old craving you parent's approval for the shifty drawing of the family you did as an assignment in arts class.

"You okay there, Oliver?" Felicity asks lowly, sitting down onto the coffee table across from him. He's not, they both know it. It's merely a conversation opener.

For the longest moment, Oliver doesn't say a word, eyes vacantly looking through her, before they finally shift into focus again and latching onto her. The penetrating look he gives her steals her breath away.

"Not really," he utters, and her heart breaks for him, one hand instantly reaching out to cup the side of his face for comfort.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, the pads of her fingers gliding over the tiny pricks of his stubble, her thumb drawing back and forth across his cheek. She holds her breath when he leans into her touch.

"I'm sorry you had to witness that," he murmurs, honest regret entering the incredible blue in his eyes.

She just shakes her head, a tiny smile stretching across her lips. "Let me stop you right there. If anybody's an expert on broken families, it's me." The words are meant to elevate to mood, but they merely make him wince.

"Still, it was not fair to unload our family crap onto you like that," he says with a sigh of acceptance, straightening in his place. Her hand never leaves his face as she shrugs at him.

"Seen worse visits going south in my life, trust me. When I was seven, my parents invited our new neighbors to dinner. Not twenty minutes into the meal, they were shouting at each other, airing all their dirty laundry in front of us, complete strangers. Cindy, the wife, was sobbing uncontrollably in between shrieking at Hank, the husband, that she knew all about his affair with his secretary, as well as the money he was stashing away so him and _Chantal_, who was thirty years his junior, could have a fresh start. It was a difficult night for my mom when she had to explain to her seven-year-old daughter later during bedtime what the word _whore_ meant."

That finally elicits the tiniest smile out of Oliver, the beautiful blue of his eyes warming as he regards her.

"Is it true?" she can't help but ask with slight apprehension. "Is your relationship with your parents really that broken?"

His eyes fall shut at her question, a defeated look appearing on his face again, and she hates the fact that she put it there, but she can't not ask.

"Yeah," he whispers. "I never… It's not like we completely ignore each other. We can in fact have a civil conversation. But it's not personal, we could be strangers that've just met. We cross paths at public functions mostly, or when we literally bump into each other somewhere. But there is nothing personal there."

"Is it true they tried to reach out to you over the years?" When he doesn't respond, she hastens to explain. "Hey, I am most definitely not judging you here. I am merely interested. And you don't have to tell me if you aren't comfortable confiding in me." For some reason, it appears it's her last words that get him talking.

"Yeah, they did. A couple of times. There is always Christmas, Thanksgiving, birthdays, private parties, the company… they always try to invite me, get me involved. Sometimes I go, but it's never private or personal. Not for the lack on trying on their part. I just… I find the impersonal level safer."

"Why?" she asks in the tiniest of whispers, not willing to break the careful balance that has him talking at last.

His eyes fall away from hers, "I guess you can be a special FBI Agent with a nicely going career and an Army vet who's survived a couple of rotations to Iraq, but you still have parent issues," he says sardonically with a small smirk, trying to downplay his pain, and it guts her.

"It's okay to be angry. Or even feel petty sometimes. And later feel irrational for it," she says. "Faced with our parents, we will always be the kids." This time, his smile is more genuine.

"Thea said… she said you were going through a rough patch when you were younger… that that's why your parents forced your hand where the military was concerned?" she tries to word it carefully.

He gives her a self-deprecating smile. "That's putting it very mildly. I was a real fuck up. I was raised with tons of money but not accountability. I never had to take responsibility for anything I did. The moment I hit my first college – mind you, there were numerous – which was a spot that was heavily paid for by my parents because my stats were nowhere near good enough to get my ass anywhere, the first thing I did was get so drunk at a frat party, I barely remember my fellow mates dragging my half-comatose ass from the community pool. It only went worse from there."

The pain, the shame of that time, still after so many years, is so heavy in his eyes, it steals Felicity's breath away. "Three colleges later, my parents have had enough all of a sudden. They gave me an ultimatum. They'd frozen all my assets, took away access to any money I had. I'd either enlist to the army and go through the Military Academy to clean up my act, or they'd official disown me. I was nineteen, I had no skills, no schooling, no real friends. All I ever knew how to do was party and lean on my parents for anything I ever needed. I had no choice." He gulps, his eyes losing it's focus as he gets sucked into the memories.

"Army was brutal, at first. I was stripped bare of anything I ever knew, I was nothing but a number. My merit was strictly tied to what I did or didn't do, to my own work, my own accomplishments. It was definitely a first for me, no mommy or daddy to step in and grease the wheels to gain my any favors. It was hard for a time. But then it got better. I realized that I liked it. I liked the order, I liked the discipline, I was a good soldier. Turned out, I was not that stupid after all, academically speaking, I just lacked the proper motivation before. Right after finishing the Academy, I was deployed for the first time. And I met a man who changed my life even more. My commanding officer, John Diggle."

The hand that's been drawing soothing circles across his stubble suddenly stops its movements.

"Wait, John Diggle, as in _Agent_ _Diggle_?"

Oliver gives her a broad smile. "The very same. He took me under his wing. He was like a brother, always looking out for me. It was Diggle who showed me I could be more in my life. Even after returning home. We both applied for a new program for army vets opening at Quantico and went through the training. After the Academy and the war, it was a piece of cake."

"Wow," Felicity whispers, amazed at the depth of his gaze as well as information he is sharing with her. They stay like that for a long moment, just looking at each other, Felicity taking it all in.

"Can I ask you something else?" she asks timidly.

"Of course."

She has a difficult time forming the question so he doesn't take it the wrong way. She goes for simple, allowing him to offer as much or as little as he finds comfortable.

"Why are you so angry at your parents?"

He sighs at that, but his eyes don't shy away from hers this time. "You mean because after everything I turned out okay. Because their ultimatum, no matter how harsh, saved me in a way. Gave my life a meaning. I was able to make something out of it," he offers and she nods, and then shakes her head, and then shrugs. Because it's not about the pros outweighing the cons. It's not a mathematical equation, objective and abstract. This is his life. And it's about the relationship with his parents, the people whose duty in life is to nurture and protect and love. Not give up on. But he already gets her, gets what she is hinting at. He takes her other hand in his, squeezing her fingers tightly.

"For a long time, I felt angry. Lying awake at night at the academy after another day of being taunted by my fellow cadets for being nothing but a stupid rich snowflake, I felt like shit. I missed my friends, I missed my sister, I missed home. And yeah, I missed the parties and the booze and I couldn't understand how I got into this situation. I couldn't understand how my parents could have thrown me under the bus so easily, so quickly. After nineteen years of indulging all and any of my whims, smoothing over any of my scandals, they suddenly put a stop to things. And I just couldn't understand why. I felt wronged. I felt abandoned, tossed aside like a puppy who was spoiled rotten only to be later kicked to the curb for growing up and still shitting into people's shoes."

That earns him a tiny compassionate smile, her hand squeezing his tightly.

"But then, it changed. I started to see the good the Academy was doing for me. I started to feel like a better man, a man worthy of my name. Not as a Queen, but as Oliver. I made friends, I worked hard, and I liked earing my own keep. Then I got deployed. Things between me and my parents were still strained, but I started to see by then why they did what they did. It made me sort out my priorities. The person I became, the work I did, I started to feel pride in it. And it was all tied to that one decision. I wanted to tell them. I wanted to let them know, tell them I understood. That I was thankful, even, despite how it made me initially feel. I wanted to make them proud. I asked them to meet me at the airport before I was deployed. But they never came."

"Oh, Oliver," Felicity utters in dismay and compassion, her fingers pressing even tighter against his cheek. She can't even imagine what that must have felt like. Not as much as come say goodbye to your only son as he is about to be send off to fight a war he might not survive.

"It was only months later, after I came back after my first tour, when I realized what their ultimatum was really about. It was never about me. I did what they asked me to do. I cleaned up my act, continued to lead an orderly and representable life, started a career I hoped my parents could be proud of. They, in turn, have uplifted their ban on my trust fund and withdrawn their disownment clause. I never touched that money again. It was while I was training at Quantico that I came across some of the public statements issued by QC's PR department made during the time I was deployed overseas. It's then that I realized what it was really about for my parents. Their tough love was never actually about love. Not about the love for their son, at least. It was made out of necessity, of self-preservation, of a desperate need to save the public image of our family and their company. They never cared how all the changes impacted me, all they cared about was how the PR department of Queen consolidated could spin the news. _The heroic Queen, the male heir of the empire, willingly enlisting to the army to fight the battles alongside his fellow countrymen. A man of the people. The Queen family crushed, fearing for their only son's safety, but nevertheless extremely proud of their son and his maturity, his altruism. His bravery. His willingness to defend US interests overseas._

"It made me sick. My parents… they expected me to own up to my mistakes, by they couldn't own up to their own, their image more important to them than publicly admitting they've failed as parents. It was always about the public image. And I just couldn't find it in myself to get over that. The feeling of anger and betrayal, of being tossed aside as the unworthy son while all the while keeping on spinning my unfortunate tale as one of voluntary success. It's when I realized how much my parent's world was corrupt. And toxic. And I refused to be sucked up into it again. That's why I avoid them as much as I can, socializing only at a bare minimum. Because they weren't there for me when I needed them and then added insult to injury when they used my situation to improve their corporate public image. What kind of parents do that?" he utters, eyes shining with tears as he regards Felicity, but she doesn't have an answer, her own throat clogged when Oliver's words hit too close to home.

She just holds his eyes, drawing closer, being pulled towards him but all the emotions she's feeling, the decade long hurt he's been silently harboring inside, a pain that's been festering until this very day. She wants to soothe that pain, so damn much, and the intensity of that feeling draws her face even closer to his, until a point when she can feel his warm breath fan over her face.

A throat suddenly clears behind her, making them both jump in surprise.

Whipping her head around, Felicity sees Thea standing close by, a deeply contemplative look with something unreadable flashing across her face as she silently regards the placement of Felicity's hand. She instantly lets it fall from Oliver's face, her other disentangling from his grip.

"Why didn't you ever tell me this, Ollie? Why didn't you tell me how you felt? What they did? I never knew." A tear glides down Thea's face.

"You were too young to understand. And then, later, the damage was already done and I didn't want to throw a further wedge between you and mom and dad, your relationship with them already being strained as it was," he admits in a quiet voice.

"Oh, Ollie," Thea laments and Felicity quickly moves out of the way as Thea makes a dash for her brother, throwing her arms around him. "You stupid idiot, you! You should have told me! I am your sister and I love you so much!"

The sight, of the two siblings embracing, a bond so tight nothing seems to be able to break it, it pulls at something inside Felicity, a deep longing of belonging unlike anything else. She's never had that. She's never had a bond with anybody quite like this, not outside her mother. Who is… well, her mom. She is kind of bound to love her child. It's what mom's do.

But she always wondered how it could be. To have a sister or a brother, a confidant and a best friend in a person, one you could share your secrets with and complain about friends and parents to.

Felicity looks at the Queen siblings now, wondering how her life would have been if she had somebody like that. And with a sudden yearning she never felt before, she wants it too. She wants to belong, to have a family, one founded in a healthy, normal relationship. To have somebody to come home to, somebody who cares. To sharing your day with them and listen to them in return, to draw strength from and lean onto each other. Fight the world together. Enjoy the world together.

She wants it like she never wanted anything in her life.

And she couldn't have picked a worse time.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

Oliver takes a sip from his coffee, eyes scanning his team's latest report on the findings of Cassidy Freeman's murder, a sweet eighteen-year-old stabbed brutally after walking home late from her cheerleading practice; Slasher's fourth victim.

Everything speaks absolutely indisputably for the same perpetrator. Modus operandi: check, cause of death: check, age of the victim: check, physical appearance: check, a good girl from a broken family: check.

She could very well be Lissy, a girl disappearing from the public eye in a flash of a moment into the sea of millions of other sweet blonde girls strewn across all of USA. After withdrawing from the public eye and the following divorce of her parents, Felicity could literally be anywhere, be _anyone_. She could have changed her name. She _did_ change her name, after all, if only her surname. It was far-fetched to expect Cassidy to be Lissy, of course, but theoretically, on paper, Cassidy could have been her. Only, she wasn't. And that cost the girl her life.

It twists Oliver's insides. The injustice, the absolutely senseless loss of life. And they still aren't anywhere closer to catching this son of a bitch.

They've managed to sift through all the evidence they've gathered so far, were able to connect nearly all of the collected cases so far. Still, the success of gained results were of a mixed kind.

The good news: the DNA gathered from the various murder scenes and victims as well as tissue collected from underneath some of the victim's nails or droplets of blood found on some of the scenes identified as not belonging to the victim had all one thing in common – they belonged to a single person, the elusive Slasher. Slowly, he's been leaving his DNA all over the states in various cases. And nobody fucking caught on for years.

There are two or three cases that can't be matched through DNA, for the lack of any at the victim or the scene, but there are other signs conclusively confirming the murders were of Slasher's doing. Outside the obvious yet indirect evidence – there is of course age and appearance of the girls, along the same method they were all murdered. They are all pieces of one puzzle. Then there is the missing jewelry. Oliver's team has managed to tie all of the pieces Felicity received in the past couple of months to various of the dead girls. Slasher's trophies, personal mementos to remind him what he has done.

There are one or two pieces of jewelry still unaccounted for, reported by the girls' families once contacted again after all these years and asked specifically about missing objects.

And Oliver doesn't know whether to count it as a curse or a blessing that from what it seems so far, the Slasher has taken _only_ – and there is a heavy emphasis on the word – one life a year ever since his first murder of a fifteen-year-old Shelby.

That is, until he moved to Star City. Once in the city, he lost any possible restriction on his killing spree, escalating his behavior to four dead girls in the matter of eight months.

He was cocky. Growing ever bolder.

Because he _knew_.

This time, he knew the girls he was murdering weren't Felicity. That's what made their murders more haphazard. More vicious. He didn't care, didn't wonder if they could be her, he outright knew they weren't, and it angered him that they tried. In his mind, they tried to be somebody they were not, while he knew who the real original was, and anyone who came close to his image was a copycat unworthy to live.

And yet, it is more than that. Even in his fury, he stayed methodical. His second Star City victim, Susan Collins, shared her birthday with Felicity. It was a bold statement from the Slasher. A mocking, of sorts.

Which only puts Oliver even more on edge, because it means that even in his delusional state, the Slasher is intelligent and cunning. It matters to him, the way he chooses his victims matters. Because _Felicity_ matters. It's his way to show her his devotion, his love for her, no matter how sick and twisted it is.

Either way, one thing is very clear. Ever since starting his Star City murder spree, something has changed, and that something is that this time, the Slasher knows he's found her. If fact, Oliver wouldn't be surprised if the very reason why the Slasher moved to SC in the first place was _because_ he found out Lissy's true identity.

Admittedly, it took Oliver a while to figure out, how the Slasher came to know, the way he finally discovered who Felicity was today and where she lived. It nagged at him the whole time after returning home from his dinner with Thea at Felicity's, his subconsciousness trying to tell him something, something that Thea said.

_I do remember now! There was this tiny article I read about you last year about you growing up and starting you own tech company in Star City and I remember thinking – wow, she is a regular person after all, and wow, she even lives in the same city as me and she grew up to be a tech guru on top of that, so good for her, yay!_

It was the only explanation. That damn article, the only real existing piece of evidence that was tying _Lissy the tech Which_ with Felicity Smoak.

And the picture slowly came together.

The Slasher, fixated and desperate, searches for her ever since she goes off air, fixating of different girls only to then grow agitated and enraged, feeling cheated and disappointed when they don't turn out to be the real thing. So he kills them, in his rage, as punishment.

And then he finally discovers who she is now, where she lives, what she does. He moves to Star City. Starts to court her, sending her email and what he believes are tokens of his adoration, evidence of his deep devotion, the jewelry of the dead girls he murdered in her name while searching for her. All while murdering her look-alikes in the meantime, a sick way of paying homage to her and punishment to those who dare to come close to the sacred image he has of her.

Oliver is no fool. The Slasher is as dangerous as they come. A wild card. Wild and deluded and dedicated. There is nothing more dangerous like a mad man who spent a decade waiting and searching for the girl he worships. A cunning and highly intelligent man, who, despite his impulsiveness and his cockiness, his self-assuredness, still knows how to wait and lay low. Curb his impatience to slowly work his way toward his goal.

And that goal, that's why doesn't Oliver sleep at night.

_Felicity_.

And they still have no fucking clue of who he is.

It's a cat and mouse game, and the mouse is currently salivating over the block of cheese while Oliver's cat is still trying to claw her way through thick the maze. It's utterly frustrating.

A soft yet firm knock comes from Oliver's partly open door before a head pushes inside his office from around the corner.

"Hiya, Agent Queen. Can you spare me a couple of minutes?" says Agent Whitlock, her glass-rimed face smiling, and despite his grim mood, Oliver can't help but return that smile.

"Sure thing, Agent Whitlock. Come inside. And it's Oliver," he reminds her once again, pointing to the empty chair across his desk.

"Right."

"What can I do for you, Agent Whitlock?"

"It's Alena," she reminds him sassily in return, and she's got him there. Oliver smiles again.

"Okay, Alena, what can I do for you?"

"It's more of what can _I _do for _you_," she grins, and Oliver's heart speeds up.

"I hope you know that at this moment, there is only one thing that I want to hear from you."

"Yep," she confirms, popping the 'p' and offering Oliver a huge smile. "They finally located the files, have misplaced them to another warehouse for corporate crime evidence in the rush after the flooding, but they have it, and they are priority-shipping the boxes as we speak."

Oliver's heart skips a beat before it starts a wild thumping in his chest. "Alena, you are extraordinary."

"Thank you," she smiles easily. "Just doing my job."

Oliver is once again reminded that hiring Alena for this job was Lyla's best proposition to his team. In a matter of weeks, she was able to collect all the evidence from all across the states, having it brought to their headquarters and neatly organized so their team could start sifting through it.

All the files but one.

Shelby Crowley's files were missing. The premises back where the evidence's been put ad acta were flooded by a burst water pipe and all files and boxes had to be moved in a hurry, some destroyed beyond repair. In their haste, some evidence went missing, got misplaced or simply vanished, gone for good, among which were also the files of a young blonde fifteen-year-old murdered girl.

The authorities back in Indiana weren't too keen to set out on a wild goose chase across various warehouses in search for evidence that might have been long lost or destroyed, but Alena was relentless, pestering them daily, even deploying a small local search party of FBI agents under the pretenses of helping out, but mainly to supervise the search would be conducted. And finally, after weeks of dead ends, it finally paid off.

The last missing piece was en route at last. For some reason, it feels crucial to Oliver.

Maybe it's because Shelby was Slasher's very first victim. The MO was different, her murder sloppy, clearly unplanned. Oliver hopes there will be something more to it. Anything more, at this point. He is grasping at straws, he knows it. And yet, he is hopeful.

Anything to bring them closer to solving this case and catch the Slasher, putting this nightmare behind them.

xxx

There is not.

It frustrates him to no end, but when Shelby's files finally arrive, there is nothing special to them that alludes to the identity of the Slasher.

The poor girl was bludgeoned to death in an alley behind her church with a metal pipe that was recovered nearby, clearly in a fit of rage. Back then, the murder was attributed to a violent mugging gone wrong, because a valuable golden bracelet with emerald stones was stolen. But they know better now.

There were no witnesses, despite it being the middle of the day, but the alley was secluded, and it was believed the girl, young and naïve, was lured there under false pretenses. There were no suspects, the local and very tight-knit community left absolutely appalled and devastated in the wake of the murder. There is one mention in the file that catches Oliver's attention, of a young man Shelby was frequently seen with a couple of weeks before her murder who worked as a church's helping personnel of sorts, cleaning the church and doing some work around the premises as needed. He was not a local boy and he disappeared shortly after Shelby's death, but there is very little information on him in the file.

It is the only lead, however, so Oliver tasks Agent Twick with contacting the church to ask about the mysterious young man while he goes through the rest of the case files, sending Digg to let their lab run the gathered crime scene samples for DNA.

There is one more thing that Oliver has been keen on recovering from the evidence, and that's the piece of paper recovered from Shelby's death grip Felicity mentioned to him a couple of weeks ago. It was dismissed as not connected to the case by the original investigators, but Oliver still wants to make sure for himself, so when one of the agents finally brings him the piece of paper wrapped securely in its plastic bag, he eagerly takes if from them, studying it closely.

The moment of discovery is… _anti-climatic_, to say the least.

The paper is old and dirty, partly starting the process of decomposition in its creases. It's covered in dirt and rusty blood spatter that's been previously attributed to Shelby. Some of the words are unreadable anymore, the ink blurred in some places from possible water damage or the blood itself.

It is just a torn-away scrap of note-paper, only two or three lines readable at the bottom of the letter since the note was clearly torn apart in half but not in a linear manner, and the meaning of the words give absolutely nothing away.

It could be school notes, for all Oliver knew, or simply a letter from a friend to a friend, the handwriting a little sloppy and childish, the note-paper pink and adorned with tiny stars with a rainbow at the bottom. The original investigators believed it to be a note from a female friend, though they could never identify said friend.

What can be discerned from the torn-away note now are the simple words:

…_.such a…._

…_don't know what…._

…_.seemed like a lovely girl. I hope that you…._

…_and I am sure it will get better with time. My mom uses to say that time heals all wounds. So hang in there. I am sure light will shine bright for you one day too like the stars and rainbow on this letter._

There used to be a signature at the bottom, but the piece of paper containing it was – interestingly – also torn away in a tiny thin strip, so there is indeed no way of knowing who the letter is from.

Well, that went… nowhere. No name, not details, no substantial information. The handwriting was definitely a child's or a young adult's, and looked distinctly feminine, which Oliver got unofficially confirmed by the department's graphologist.

But that information lead nowhere and they were at square one again.

Oliver heaves a sigh, craning his neck back and forth in a futile attempt to stall the budding headache. His tired eyes fall at the clock on the wall, only now registering the late hour. He's spent the past several hours hunched over his desk going through Shelby's case files along with his team's notes on the gathered evidence, trying to spot the proverbial odd sock, but without luck.

So it's only natural that his eyes are itching dry and his neck stiff. Oh, and he is hungry as hell.

As if on cue, his stomach rumbles rather obscenely in the quiet of his office. It's nearly eight pm, the office quiet. Only a handful of agents are left behind, the majority having long gone home. Oliver heaves another sigh, wondering what to do. He could make the short walk down the hall to the small army of vending machines, grab a coffee and something to eat and spend some more time on the files. He still has a couple of witness statements to go through. But even as he ponders that, he has to honestly admit he wouldn't be able muster the energy to concentrate hard enough not to risk skimming over something of importance. And that is definitely not worth it.

His phone vibrates with a message and he looks at the device laying motionlessly on the table, his screen lighting up. Oliver's eyes are so tired, he has pick it up close and squint to read the small words.

'_Still at work? I've got Mexican that's so spicy Curtis had to drink half a gallon of milk to quench the burning.'_

An instant smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. The offer is tempting. So very, very tempting.

His eyes wander to the clock again, the sight of the late hour making him sigh with the realization how very late it is.

'_It's late. I don't want to_ _impose._'

Her response is instantaneous.

'_Ha! You are funny. It's not late for work but too late for a visit and some decent dinner? I swear Curtis is a wuss, the food is nowhere near that spicy. Now get your ass over here, mister.'_

And who is he to disobey a direct order?

xxx

She was lying. The Mexican is indeed blisteringly hot, and Oliver has a hard time keeping a straight face as he chews, his mouth and throat on fire as he tries to suppress the tears coming to his eyes.

Even more shockingly, he observes as Felicity contentedly munches on her own bowl of the same food next to him, perfectly fine with the murderous taste of the chilies and jalapenos, grinning at him happily. He will never understand how she can be so ridiculously immune to spices.

"So. How was your day?" she finally asks, gulping down the last of the food in the carton she's been holding and switching it for another half-eaten one from the coffee table in front of them. Oliver, in turn, uses the opportunity to take a big gulp of his water so he is even in a state to answer her without panting like a dog.

"Shelby Crowley's files were finally delivered today," he tells her at last, closely observing her reaction to his words. As he had expected, she freezes, her fork halting midair on its way to her mouth. For a moment, she keeps completely still before she finally takes the bite, carefully chewing while her mind processes his words.

"Well, from the tired and defeated look you are sporting, I expect there were just a lot of dead ends again," she offers, her voice neutral, despite Oliver knowing the news must feel frustrating to her.

"Yeah," he sighs, hanging his head and bringing one hand up to massage his neck, trying to work out the kinks there, realizing the slow headache that's been building the whole day has finally caught up with him.

"Bummer," Felicity says nonchalantly, but she puts the carton of food down, suddenly finished with eating, and that's all the tell-tale sign Oliver needs to know the news made her lose her appetite.

"Nothing whatsoever?"

"Not yet," her tells her earnestly, his eyes catching hers and pinning her in a silent plea not to lose hope.

She clears her throat, her eyes falling away from his. "What about the note? Did the evidence include the note?"

"Yes. But it appears not to be connected to the case whatsoever. There is just a fraction of it, the words containing nothing meaningful. Steven, our graphologist, confirmed it's a girl's handwriting, probably a friend of Shelby's."

"Can I see it?" Felicity asks, her voice clipped, business like. He's got used to her detached manner whenever they are talking about the case. It's her way of protecting herself.

"Sure," Oliver says, extracting his tablet where he emailed himself a scanned copy of the note. He already suspected Felicity would want to see the note for herself, that's why there is currently a copy of Shelby's original file in his briefcase he intends to leave for her once he leaves tonight. He knows her methods by now only too well.

"Here," he offers her the tablet but then pulls it back at the last second, hiding the screen while issuing a warning. "I just- There is blood spatter. A lot of it. I know that you are used to such imagery by now, but I just wanted you to know what to expect."

Her eyes soften momentarily at his words and she offers him a soft smile. "Thank you."

He gives her the tablet then and when her eyes fall on the screen, her reaction is… definitely unexpected.

Upon the sight of the note, Felicity's whole body freezes. She is absolutely rigid as her eyes frantically scan the note. Then she sucks in a loud breath, her eyes growing huge with a realization. She starts to tremble and Oliver knows then that something is very, _very_ wrong. A low, keening noise leaves her lips and her hand with the tablet falls down to her knees, as her eyes glassing over with unshed tears.

"Felicity?" Oliver calls in alarm, but she is already hiding her face behind her hands, sucking in deep breaths.

"God," she keens again, "I can't believe this is happening."

"Felicity, hey!" Oliver tries again, alarmed and more than a little worried by her visceral reaction. He tries to pull her hands away from her face to catch her eyes, but she won't let him, one hand firmly covering her eyes while the other drawing back to pull at her hair with a grip that looks distinctly painful.

"Felicity, talk to me," he instructs her, his voice deep and authoritative. "What's wrong?"

He must strain his ears to hear the words, but even as he hears them, they don't make any sense.

"It's me. It's mine."

"What's yours?" he asks in confusion.

"The note," she whimpers. "It's mine. It's my letter."

After that, she breaks down in tears.

xxx

It takes her a lot of time to calm down. Oliver just sits there, feeling utterly useless, one of his arms gripping her around the shoulders while the other pulls her closely towards his chest in what he hopes is a comforting hug, but she doesn't seem to notice even as she clings to him lost in her own head, hands clawing into his shirt and drawing into fierce tight fists.

He tries to wrap his own mind around it, around her words and their meaning, but he can't make any sense of them whatsoever. There just… it doesn't make any sense, no way he tries to spin it.

So his only option is to wait her out and give her the time she needs to collect her thoughts despite his mind being on fire with curiosity. This is important. So, _so_ important.

But her mental state takes precedence.

Oliver doesn't know how long they stay like that, but he knows it takes a while because when her sobs finally start to subside, Oliver feels a twinge of pain in his lower back from his rather awkward position being wrapped over and around her.

She takes a couple of shuttering breaths, her fingers finally loosening their grip on his shirt as she pulls them away from him and he offers her a silent, reassuring smile when she does. His hands glide through her hair, smoothing it down, then stop at her cheeks, wiping away the remaining tears, his thumbs drawing soothing circles across her flushed cheeks. He is not even aware he is doing it until she clears her throat, her eyes guarded and wary all of a sudden, and it's only then when he realizes how closely he is holding her, his caresses way too intimate, even for friends.

He immediately pulls away, rising to his feet and walking to the kitchen to put some much needed distance between them, busying himself with fetching her a glass of water and some tissues to wipe her face and blow her nose with.

She accepts them silently, her eyes glassy and unfocused as they stare towards the surface of the table and the now darkened screen of the tablet, lost in thought.

He waits her out. He's waited months to crack this case, he can certainly wait a couple more minutes.

"It was my homework," she whispers at last, and it's the last thing he expects her to say. "He made me do it every Sunday afternoon. He sat down with me, took a fresh pile of letters from that week and made me pick five of them haphazardly. I never particularly liked it, but he said it was important for me to reach out to my fans."

"Who did, Felicity?" Oliver asks.

"My dad," she utters nearly in a whisper, and something heavy pulls at his heart at her declaration.

"He was my manager, both him and mom officially were, but he was the driving force behind Lissy. I received a lot of fan mail back then. There was a team of people who went through them, made sure they contained nothing dangerous or inappropriate, then passed them on to my dad who let me pick five a week I would personally answer. He called it a writing exercise for me. Took me years to realize it was nothing more than just another publicity stunt."

Oliver's eyes fall back to the tablet, tapping it with a finger to activate the screen to once again view the letter, the piece of paper suddenly gaining a whole new meaning to him.

"The handwriting… it's yours," he murmurs mesmerized, realization hitting him a little too slowly.

"Yeah."

"But how…"

His mind is spinning. Because that's the question, isn't it? How come her letter, or at least a part of it, was found in the hand of a young girl murdered nearly a decade ago?

"I don't know," she utters helplessly as another tear glides down her cheek. "But it must have been his."

And there it is, the connection, the only logical explanation. The missing link tying all of this together.

"It was your letter to _him_," Oliver realizes with bated breath, his gut twisting. It would perfectly explain his obsession with her, the intimate, personal connection the Slasher believed they shared.

_A letter._

"I guess. Wouldn't make much sense if it was hers," she confirms, her way of thinking in sync with his. Her eyes fall once again to the image of the blood-spattered scrap of paper. "But who knows."

And that's the question.

"Is there a way to know, Felicity?" Oliver gently asks, threading carefully, even though his whole body is thrumming with suppressed excitement. This is it. This is their lead that could finally unveil the Slasher's mysterious identity.

Felicity's eyebrows scrunch in though and her expression changes, taking on a more analytical look as she studies the screen again. "I don't know, maybe," she murmurs, mulling his question over. "It's definitely one from my last year as Lissy."

"How can you be so sure?" asks Oliver, surprised.

"The paper," she says simply, pointing her finger to the tiny starts and the rainbow at the bottom of the page. "I remember using the star and rainbow paper in my last months as Lissy."

"Okay, good. That's good," Oliver says, his excitement making him jittery. They are so close he can almost feel it on the tip of his tongue, and he has to fight against all of his instincts to pressure her.

"So the connection, the personal link we've been searching for between you and the Slasher. It's a letter. He contacted you and you wrote back a handwritten letter. That's why it's personal for him."

"Yeah, but Oliver, I've written hundreds of these," she argues, a note of frustration entering her voice.

"I know," he says soothingly. "But he doesn't know that. Or he does, but he doesn't care, because he feels special, he feels _chosen_. You wrote to _him_."

"It's just a stupid letter!" Felicity cries angrily. "I was thirteen and my dad made me do it as part of his publicity strategy. I barely remember doing it, not to mention what nonsense I wrote to the hundreds of people over the years."

"I know, Felicity. I understand," he says, his hand covering hers over the table. "I am not implying you are somehow responsible for his psychosis just because your thirteen-year-old self happened to once upon a time write him a letter."

He hits a nail on the head with his words, because Felicity slowly deflates in her chair, her anger and frustration extinguishing just like that. "I never even wanted to write those stupid letters," she defends in a whisper and his fingers squeeze hers in compassion.

"I am sorry," he says. And he is. He truly is.

He is even more sorry for what he is about to ask next.

"Can you possibly think of any way for us to get more information about the recipients of your letters? Any information whatsoever… maybe you can remember something, maybe there are some types of records," he suggests, not wanting to raise his hopes, despite his heart wildly hammering in his chest.

She is silent for a long time. Then, "Actually, there might be."

He lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. "Tell me."

"My father. He used to keep close records. He was sort of a neat freak, needed to have control and oversight about everything regarding my career. I remember him keeping records and copies of the letters I've chosen along with my replies. He said it was good to keep copies in case of any possible responding allegations, to know who received answers from me if there even arose the need to consult what I've written. I didn't understand it back then, he read though all my answers after me, made sure they were okay. Vast majority of them were just letters to kids like myself, but he said some parents were strange and greedy and it was better to be safe than sorry and have evidence to back up… I… whatever made him do it, I don't know. But I know he kept records."

Oliver's heart stopped, then restarted with a wild beat. "Felicity, is there a way-"

He wondered how to phrase it. He knew she wasn't in contact with her father anymore. Hasn't been in contact with the man for a decade. He didn't want to open old wounds, but he needed to ask.

She beat him to it.

"My mom has them. I mean, if they still exist, it would be my mom who has them. She was left with everything from my time back as Lissy. My dad, he just…" the takes a deep breath as if bracing herself, and his heart surges for her. "He just took off. Right after the divorce was complete, he took his bag and left. Didn't even say goodbye." Her voice wavers slightly, but she soldiers on. "My mom was left to deal with everything. Tying all the loose legal knots, dealing with the studio to release me from my contract, talking to the press to leave us alone. And taking care of me, arranging the name change and sealing the records and organizing our subsequent move to California. It was a lot. I still can't grasp my mind around how she managed to do all that by herself. I think… I believe she didn't have it in her to sort through all the Lissy crap that was left, the documents and photos and tapes, so she just packaged it all into boxes and shipped to California with us. We never touched those boxes, despite the fact that they take up the majority of our double garage and my mom has to park her car outside because of it. But we could never be sure whether there was something of value we would one day need in those boxes and we never sorted out the unnecessary junk to throw away. So there is a good chance the records and copies of the letters are there as well."

Felicity's hand twitches under Oliver's and he just holds onto her fingers tighter, not saying anything, letting her work it out on her own. Her eyes finally catch his and he's delighted and extremely relieved when he spots a resolute spark ignite in her eyes, her features hardening with resolve.

"I think- I think I need to call my mom."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

_He hasn't seen her in weeks. They've kept her hidden, cooped up in her apartment, no doubt pressuring her into telling them about him._

_Poor Lissy._

_They invaded all of his usual observation points, making police patrols regularly check them out for activity. Pointless, he thinks, since her blinds have been drawn ever since he sent her his flowers._

_It was a risk he had to take. _

_He knew it would probably come to that, but it needed to be done, she needed to be warned. They were trying to sway her, turn her against him, so she would give him up. But he warned her, and she was a smart girl, his Lissy. Smarter than the whole fucking lot of them__; __she wouldn't be so easily manipulated._

_They even parked a couple of plainclothes agents down her street, having them on twelve hours rotation shifts. _

_Amateurs. _

_But fine, just as well. Whatever made them feel like they were in control. _

_He had time. He had spent a decade looking for her and the last year easing them back into their relationship, bringing them closer once again. He's sent her gifts as evidence that for him, there was none like her. She was the one and he would not be fooled, despite many foolish girls trying. _

_He has waited a decade, so patience was practically his middle name. _

_He could wait a little more._

_And though it didn't sit right with him that she was in their clutches right now, it couldn't be helped. He knew she would keep being strong for him. It was just for a little while longer, he vowed. Not too long now, he silently promised._

_They had to be smart about it, though. _

_He's had time, a lot of time, lately. There were no more impostors to hunt down anymore, not when the real thing was so close he could nearly taste her, smell the soft fragrance of her hair. He had a lot of time he could now wholly dedicate to execute his plan to make their relationship permanent._

_He was partly sorry it had to be a life on the run, but he was sure she would understand. The police, the FBI, they've been after him for years. After _him_, when they really should have been after the copycats. All those stupid girls who had the audacity to try to imitate the original they had no chance to come even close to._

_He was sure she'd understand. He knew she'd love him even more for his unwavering devotion. She was like that, his Lissy. Bright, loving, compassionate, caring._

_She was as a thirteen-year-old girl who literally saved his life and he had no doubt she was as the twenty-four year old woman as well. He's followed her every movement, traced her life years back only to find out she was even more amazing than he could have hoped or dreamed for her to become. _

_He was beyond smitten, her adult version even more perfect, more endearing than the little girl who wrote her compassionate letter full of love to him._

_And now it was time to show her what he had to offer in return._


	13. Chapter 13

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxOliverxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The seat shakes with another mild turbulence and Felicity visibly gulps, hands firmly gripping the armrests of her seat.

"Not a big fan of flying?" Oliver asks with an understanding smile.

One of Felicity's closed eyelids cracks open, slowly regarding him, before she offers a tiny smile. "Never really was."

Oliver continues to smile compassionately at her, his eyes zeroing in on Felicity's knuckles that have turned white from all of the squeezing she's been doing for the past twenty minutes.

He gulps at the realization, his mouth going dry. He is nervous too all of a sudden, but for a whole different reason. The sight of her distress and discomfort does something to him on a very basic level, and he finds he has to physically restrain himself to reach out and cover one of her hands with his in an attempt to soothe her fear of flying.

The last time they were in a similar situation, the tables were turned and Felicity was the one soothing him. And Oliver remembers quite clearly how he nearly gave into the incredible, almost magnetic pull this woman has on him.

He almost kissed her. If not for his sister's reappearance at that very moment, Oliver knows he would have kissed her, without any restraint or a single thought of regret.

And that scares him. Because he can't. He wants to, God how he wants to, but he absolutely _can't_. She is in his care, so to speak; she is a woman whose safety and wellbeing was professionally entrusted into has hands, a woman he is supposed to work with and protect in the process. She relies on him staying professional and focused on her case. And he absolutely can't fuck that up, either his ability to keep a clear head and concentrate on what's really important – catching the Slasher and ending the nightmare her life has become – or break the open trust they've built by making it even more awkward and complicated between them by confessing to his ever growing feelings for her.

He can't be selfish and improper like that. He just can't risk it. Risk her.

Maybe when this is all over… okay, _definitely_ when this is all over, he will ask her out on a date in the hopes of something more developing between them. But not a minute before they have the Slasher safely behind bars.

So he keeps his distance, just to be on the safer side, just to withstand the temptation to touch her which always leads to an inexplicable yearning in him to do _more_. He has kept his distance ever since that fateful dinner night, physically. But seeing her in so much discomfort and distress over something as simple as a turbulent flight, Oliver longs to reach out to soothe that fear. Not able to do anything physically, he chooses to go for mental distraction instead of a physical one.

"Tell me again, what is it exactly that you want me to tell you mother about our visit and my part in it?"

It's not that he doesn't remember. He just wants to make sure, because the story's been changing so many times now, he has a hard time keeping track as Felicity seems to settle her mind on another cover story every thirty minutes.

He can't blame her. He understands her need to shield her mother. Protect her from the ugly truth that her daughter is currently being hunted as a trophy by a serial killer. Still, the thought of having to lie to Felicity's mother the first time he gets to meet the woman doesn't sit right with him.

And wow, that's a thought. Oliver knows, even if he doesn't want to admit to it, where that particular thought is coming from. It's the same place that has his heart beating a little faster every time he looks at Felicity, taking in the joyous spark in her blues of her easy smile.

But no. No, his mind can't go that way. Not now. Not with the Slasher case still looming above them, putting Felicity's life in danger. The fact that he consciously has to remind himself about that "little nuisance" is really speaking a lot about where his mind is currently at. Which it absolutely shouldn't be and he should absolutely concentrate on the Slasher and the newest piece of evidence they've discovered.

Because the personal connection between the Slasher and Felicity is huge. And deeply unsettling. In fact, it's far worse than Oliver could have imagined.

The man is absolutely psychotic. Has been for over a decade, his fixation with Felicity only growing in time. Not the killer part, though. The killer part, Oliver knows, has always been there, lurking in the deep recesses of his mind probably long before he got to know a girl like Felicity even existed. His sick devotion and connected murdering spree of girls that look similar to Felicity is just an outlet for his compulsive need to murder. His obsession with Lissy is just a pretext, an outlet of his compulsion to murder. If there was not Felicity, his killing tendencies would simply manifest in another way, but they would always be there. She is not the cause for his crimes, merely a reason he uses to justify his heinous acts to himself.

But that's the problem; it's Felicity who is the alfa and omega of this. The Slasher's origins are all coming back to her, to this one letter she once innocently wrote as Lissy to a faceless fan. She is the beginning and the end for him, and it's a double-edged sword. Because as much as this status has yet offered her some kind of immunity from suffering by Slasher's own hand, he won't back down until he gets his hands on her, and Oliver doesn't dare to think about how that would end.

So that's why they are here, sitting on the soonest possible commercial flight heading California on a desperate wild goose chase, visiting Felicity's mother in hopes she has kept over a decade old records of her absentee father's that could finally help them put a name to Slasher's handle.

They could have had the documents shipped, of course. Oliver could have requested a local team to visit Donna Smoak and retrieve all the files. But that would probably take even longer than actually jumping on the first plane themselves, the bureaucratic hassle not worth it. Knowing exactly what they are looking for is also probably going to pose an advantage a simply debriefed team wouldn't have.

Last but not least, there is the question of what and how much Felicity wants to reveal to her mother. Which is not a whole lot, Oliver has come to understand. And it has his insides churning unpleasantly, not even the fact to have Felicity finally out of town and relatively safe balancing out the unease currently pooling at the bottom of his stomach. It just doesn't feel right to lie to the woman Oliver knows has dedicated her whole life to her daughter's wellbeing and happiness. In spite of that, though, he is ready to fully respect Felicity's decision on the matter. It's absolutely her call.

So he gulps down his own issues, dutifully waiting for Felicity to repeat her latest cover story to him again.

"Okay, so you are a journalist for a tech magazine in Star City who offered to make a feature about me and my company in your magazine. As part of your research, you want to delve deeper into my past to know where I came from and how I got into science and all that. Since we became friends, I invited you to my childhood home to peruse some old materials of mine, on Lissy, where my love for tech has started. There. Clean and easy. Just keep it simple and it will be okay," Felicity offers with a shrug.

Oliver takes in the facts, committing them to memory. It sounds like a rather elaborate plan, though, and despite the fact that he doesn't know Donna Smoak, he has a hard time believing she will take easily or kindly to the story, especially after being the mom of a little girl who has been in the journalistic spotlight for years. That must have been tough, and Oliver can't imagine the woman to react well to the knowledge of a journalist sniffling and snooping in her daughter's life once again. Not to mention, he really doesn't feel like pretending to be a journalist, a profession he knows absolutely nothing about, in front of what will certainly be a suspicions Donna Smoak.

"Why can't we just tell her the truth?" he asks again, wincing at Felicity's huff and rather stern look she shoots back at him.

"I don't mean… I mean I know why you don't want to tell her the whole truth, "he offers kindly, "I just meant why we can't tell him a _version_ of the truth? For example that you are consulting the FBI on an old case that might involve Lissy. We don't have to say it concerns you directly."

"Because!" Felicity snaps, her voice uneven, and Oliver can see he's pushed too far. "It would be exactly that! Too close to the actual truth. And trust me, my mom, she is many things, but stupid, she is definitely not. She would sniff out the truth in a matter of minutes."

"Okay, okay," Oliver backpedals. "I just… a reporter? Given your history with them, won't she be a little protective in the face of one, especially she's never heard of before?"

Felicity huffs again, her face growing annoyed, even as the plane shakes again, and Oliver counts it a little victory. Better being annoyed with him than scared of the turbulences. Even if he doesn't enjoy being on the receiving end of her wrath, he has to admit.

"Trust me. She might not like it, but she will accept it if I explain it to her. Especially when I tell her you are not merely a reporter I happen to know, but a friend. Your good looks and natural charm won't hurt either," she murmurs on an afterthought before her eyes grow huge with the realization of what she has just said aloud.

Oliver can't help the smile – a grin, really – that stretches unbidden across his face. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," she quips, her cheeks growing a lovely shade of pink. He allows himself to enjoy the tiny moment of normalcy, the usual push and pull between them. They've been growing less and less often as the case and its severity progressed, the pressure getting to the both of them. And he's missed this. Missed how easy it could be between them when the threat of a killing maniac wasn't looming about them.

"You just let me worry about my mom, okay ?" Felicity says, fixing him with a warning look.

"Alright," he says with a sigh, giving in. "It's your call. Let me just say this, Felicity, and then I promise to shut up for good. I understand you want to protect your mom. I do. But if you were my daughter, no matter where, no matter what, I'd want to know."

He leaves it at that, straightening back in his seat and turning his head back to the window, allowing her the time to ponder his words. Before long, he starts to feel the pressure in his ears as the plane descends.

xxx

The first impression of Felicity's teenage home is homey and welcoming. Almost picturesque.

The whole street really is, a nearly idyllic suburbia full with joggers and dog-walkers and kids riding their bikes.

The thought that it must have been wonderful growing up here flashes through Oliver's mind before he rejects the though as too generic. From what he knows about Felicity's life back then, the baggage she and her mom dragged with them after the ending of Felicity's career and the divorce of her parents, trying to stay anonymous while at the same time blend in well into what looks like a tightly knit community, life certainly wasn't as easy and fun as the sight of the friendly street might suggest.

Still, the home she and her mother had created for themselves looks peaceful and well maintained. There is a lot of greens around the house, and a beautiful white porch with a southern touch at the front and something about the place speaks to Oliver, who's known nothing but the long halls adorned with art and unpersonal spacious saloons of the Queen mansion growing up.

They make their way up the few steps that lead to the patio, the wood creaking under his feet, and when Felicity rings the bell while throwing him a nervous look, Oliver thinks he is prepared for what's to come.

He is vastly mistaken.

Donna Smoak is a whirlwind. A true force of the nature to be reckoned with.

Their visit wasn't unannounced, yet they are more than welcome into her home as she pulls the both of them inside. Even before the door is closed behind them, there is a lot of squealing and hugging and before he knows it, the both of them – without giving her daughter a chance to properly introduce the stranger in her mother's home – they are already being ushered deeper into the house and inside the sitting room, pushed to sit on a super large and super spacious couch, Donna Smoak serving them both with a nice cold glass of home-made lemonade.

"I am sorry to burst in here and surprise you like this, mom," Felicity starts once all the squealing and hugging has subsided for her to finally find an opening to talk, but her mother just waves her concerns away.

"Oh, hush, dear! You know there never has to be a reason to come visit your good old mom!"

Oliver has a hard time reconciliating the words with the image – for Donna Smoak looks not a day beyond forty, and despite being surprised at her home at ten in the morning on a Saturday, she is still wearing heavy yet decent makeup, golden locks that are so much like Felicity's pulled into a high ponytail. Her eyes are blue and lively, sparkling with interest and joy, their color reminding Oliver so much of Felicity's own.

"Were you in the neighborhood for business?" Donna asks directing her question at her daughter alone, and Oliver finds her seemingly easy words rather revealing.

Donna Smoak adores her daughter, that's absolutely clear. She is overjoyed about the sudden visit. But she also apparently doesn't expect her daughter to just visit her like that, automatically assuming her trip is about business, rather than pleasure. Another tell-tale sign that tells him this must be a first for the mother-daughter due is that Donna still hasn't inquired about the stranger occupying her couch, probably considering him some kind of local business partner of Felicity's, who merely happened to tag along. In spite of it, she is being extremely nice, and Oliver instantly takes a liking to the generous woman.

As if reading his thoughts, Felicity finally comes out of her surprise to be in her family home once again to make the proper introductions. "Mom, I am sure you are dying to know who this is," she points unnecessarily towards him, just so she has something to do with her hands, Oliver notices. "This is Oliver Queen. He is a friend of mine. Oliver, this is my mom, Donna Smoak."

"Oh," Donna says, throwing a surprised look at her daughter before smiling widely at Oliver. "A friend, I see," she repeats excitedly, winking at her daughter not at all subtly and Oliver rather feels than sees Felicity's whole body stiffen next to him.

"Nice to meet you, Mrs. Smoak," he offers kindly, ignoring Donna's inuendo, to which she lets out a surprisingly girlish giggle.

"Oh, c'mon dear, there is no need for such formality. Call me Donna."

"Okay," he smiles in return, feeling a little flustered. "Donna, then."

"So, Felicity, Oliver, what do I owe the pleasure?" Donna asks and there is a surprising keenness in her voice as she fixates her daughter with an eager look.

Felicity's shoulders rise in a defensive manner before she quickly explains; "Actually, I wanted to ask you a favor, mom. Oliver here," she points to him again, "is a journalist for a prominent Star City tech magazine. And he offered to make a feature about Helix and how it came to be."

"Oh, I see," Donna says after a slight pause and her brow pulls into a frown, the corners of her smile falling.

"Yeah, isn't that wonderful?" Felicity says with a chirp voice and a fake smile that pains Oliver to witness. "So, I was wondering, since Helix really started with my passion for technology and science, which in turn originates from my time as Lissy, if we could look through some of the old materials in our garage. You know, for research."

"Oh, I see," Donna repeats cordially, but there is sudden coldness in the look she throws at Oliver. It takes only a moment before her mouth pulls into another smile, but it's the same kind Oliver saw on Felicity's face only a moment ago. Utterly fake.

Changing her focus suddenly and turning her full attention to Oliver, Donna asks in a sweet voice: "Tell me again, Oliver, how did you and my daughter meet?"

"Mom," Felicity warns as Oliver shifts uncomfortably in his seat, recognizing the question for what it is.

"We actually met at a public function," Oliver says with an easy smile, the lie slipping through his teeth easily enough. "Your daughter was there to promote her company, while I was there on a working assignment. We met at the bar when both of us tried to take a break."

"Yeah!" Felicity jumps in, feigning excitement. "In fact, Oliver was a real gentleman, saving me from the advances of another guest who was rather drunk," she explains, her hand falls onto Oliver's forearm and squeezing rather tightly in a desperate attempt to make him corroborate her story. Donna Smoak eyes them both like a hawk, the intimate touch not escaping her vigilant eyes, and Oliver feels like he's being under a microscope, dissected and analyzed and judged. Heavily.

He gulps, his eyes seeking out Felicity's. There is a vulnerability he hasn't seen in her yet, her blues beseeching him to play along for her sake, for her mother's sake, though they are both well aware she's pushed the cover story to an implied personal level that neither of them has agreed to. And Oliver knows right then and there that there is nothing he wouldn't do for her to make that look of utter desperation disappear from her face. Even lie to her own mother.

So he takes a breath and schools his features, turning on that signature boyish Queen charm girls seemed to fall all over for back in the day.

"Yeah, well, I can't blame him for trying. You were by far the most beautiful woman I've seen in my life." It doesn't even feel like a lie.

Felicity's eyes grow huge at his unveiled appraisal, her gaze growing heavier and cheeks pink, before she finally breaks her eyes away from his, looking at her mother to gauge her reaction.

Clearing her throat, Felicity picks up the conversation again. "Yeah, so, we sort of started talking after that and it turned out Oliver worked for a tech magazine and was looking to make a major feature about women in tech business. He suggested it could be me and thinking about it for a while, I said yes."

"Oh, really?" Donna says in a clipped voice, not hiding her skepticism. "I never knew you were interested to be put into spotlight again."

Donna poses her words as a question, and Oliver sees her focus shift. She is not analyzing him anymore; she is analyzing her daughter. When there is no immediate answer, her eyes shift from one to another, and Oliver instantly knows what Felicity meant when she said her mother wasn't stupid. Far from it, in fact. Underneath the mask of a giddy, frivolous blonde, Donna Smoak was indeed a very savvy and intuitive woman.

"Well, I thought, why the heck not?" Felicity says with the tiniest hint of nervousness in her voice. "It's been years since Lissy, Helix could definitely use some good publicity, and maybe it's time to make a clean cut behind my childhood career and move on, present myself as the young business woman to the world."

"I see," Donna said contemplatively, though what exactly she _sees_, Oliver can't tell and is too afraid to ask.

She changes tactics, abruptly shifting her focus back to him, probably considering him to be the weaker link. "Oliver… can I call you Oliver?" she says, not waiting for an answer, "Can I be perfectly honest with you?"

Felicity stiffens again next to him and Oliver braces himself, nodding his approval at Donna.

"As you must be aware, being such good _friends_ with my daughter and all, she's been through a lot in her life short life. She is an utmost sweet and brilliant woman, and yet none of the men in her life have treated her accordingly, so I am sure you won't begrudge me my motherly concern when I say I would simply hate to see her being taken advantage of and hurt in the process by yet another man."

"Mom!"

"No, let me finish, sweetheart-"

"Mrs. Smoak… Donna… I assure you, it's not like that."

"Really? What is it like, then? I am sorry," she says, giving a little laugh, but there is no amusement in her tone, "I am not as smart as my daughter, but maybe you could explain to me, what exactly _are_ your intentions with my daughter?"

Oh no, the woman was anything but dumb.

And Oliver finds himself floundering for an adequate answer. Because he wants to tell her the truth. He _wants_ to tell Donna that he is hopelessly falling in love with her daughter. That she is the most bright and sweet and generous spirit he's ever known. That he isn't some kind of a stupid, greedy reporter set out to use her story and then throw her away, but is in fact a man who thinks the world of her. A man who desperately wants to catch the serial killer after her and then ask her out on a date to see where it will lead, if she will only let him.

Yet he says none of those things. Because it isn't his place, and it isn't what Felicity asked of him. And yes. Because he is a fucking coward, too.

Still, he has to tell her _something_. So he takes a deep breath, bracing himself, trying to keep his words as vague yet as close to the truth as he dares.

"I assure you, Mrs. Smoak," something tells him his opportunity to call the woman by her first name has long past, "I hold your daughter in very high esteem. This is not a development of one meeting somewhere at a bar. Me and your daughter, we are friends. Good friends, I dare say. Trust me when I say that I have absolutely no intention to hurt her, on any level or in any way. I would be a fool to throw away her friendship and the joy her company brings me to simply use her to shortsightedly further my own career. I might be working now on an assignment regarding her personal life, but I am doing it with utmost respect to who she is and where she came from. I am doing all of this with the intent to stay in her life long after our cooperation is completed. If she'll have me, that is," he adds on an afterthought. He doesn't dare to look at Felicity while he talks, holding Donna's eyes instead and willing all of his sincerity to manifest in the look he gives Felicity's mother.

Because his words are not a lie, they are a thinly veiled version of the truth. Something tells Oliver to stick to it as much as possible where Donna Smoak is considered, despite Felicity previous concerns of how her mother would call them out. And his approach seems to pay off too, because after a long while of simply sternly holding his gaze in what appears almost a challenge, something in Donna's gaze gives way and shifts. Oliver ofers her a gentle smile, a peace-offering he hopes she will take, and there is something gentle and genuine shining on her face when she finally returns it.

"Thank you for your honesty, Oliver. I appreciate it."

The serious atmosphere in the room is suddenly broken by Donna literally hopping in her seat as she turns to her daughter clapping her hands excitedly, her carefree joy back with a vengeance. "I hope you two are staying for dinner! We can order pizza from Alessandro's! I bet they still remember your order, sweetheart," she says enthusiastically with a tiny giggle, grinning at her daughter.

This time, Felicity's returning smile is full and genuine.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxFelicityxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Leading Oliver to their garage, Felicity ponders how if not for Oliver's save, her whole stupid cover story could have blown back into their faces. She can admit now that introduce Oliver as a journalist to her mom was really poor judgement on her part. Still, she didn't expect such a visceral reaction from her mom.

She has to say, thinking about it now, she is rather touched by her mother's fierce protectiveness. As for how she feels about Oliver's words… she would rather not go there, because saying she was touched by them – despite knowing they were mostly for show to qualm her mom's worries about his intentions – would be an understatement. God, she thought introducing him to her mom would be embarrassing enough. But to hear him talk about her so highly, so appraisingly, to her own mother no less… It caused the little, ever-growing fuzzy pocket of warmth and light she's been carrying with her since she got to know Oliver nearly burst with emotion.

She was no stranger to feeling in love. So she knew, whatever she was feeling for Oliver was nowhere near platonic and dangerously close to a territory she didn't want to name. Couldn't afford to name, was too scared to name.

So she turned her attention to something she could assert her control over; the case and finding Slasher's original letter.

"See those boxes over there," she calls to Oliver, pointing at numerous stacks of boxes at the far end of the garage. "Those are all from my time as _Lissy_."

Looking at the dozens upon dozens of boxes, Felicity feels a wave of sheer hopelessness hit her. To find what they are looking for is indeed going to be a daunting task and she has no idea how much it will take to sift through. Sighing, she rolls up her sleeves, pulling the first box carrying the inscription _Lissy_ _11-12 yo_ in a fat black sharpie towards her.

It's not even twenty minutes and a couple of boxes later while she is closing a box with CD recordings of Lissy's first season, when Oliver let's out a choked gasp, and when she turns in alarm towards him, she can see his eyes growing huge upon a photo he's holding and observing up close.

Quickly crossing the space, she feels her face flush with hot embarrassment once she spots what he's looking at. Without thinking, the snatches the photo from his hands, hiding the picture against her chest.

"You are not supposed to look at that! How on earth did it even get mixed up in these boxes?"

But Oliver is still staring, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth despite how he tries – and fails – not to laugh at her.

"Please, let me see it again," he begs, mirth dancing in his eyes.

"No way in hell!" she exclaims angrily, taking a step away from him.

"C'mon, we were all going through phases in our lives," he reasons good-naturedly, and she can see the earnestness in his eyes, but nope. Nope.

"Did you also dye your hair black and put a lot of black makeup on yourself when you were at college?" she asks petulantly.

"Well, no," he slowly admits and she gives him a pointed look. "I admit, at neither of those _four _colleges I attended-" he emphasizes the number, "-I never went through a goth phase. Though I remember how at the academy, the first thing they did was to crop my douchy long hair nearly to the scalp. I also remember secretly crying hot tears about the loss that night in my bunk bed."

And okay, she can see what he is doing, and it's kinda working, the mental image he's giving her gentling the sting of embarrassment upon his sight of the photo of her college goth phase. Taking a step forward, she finally releases the photo to him again.

Fuck it, the man has already seen her at her worst. Her poor personal style choices from college make barely a dent in the picture she must make to him. He takes the photo carefully back, but instead of directly look at it, he silently offers her to down next to him at the ground, which she does with a sigh.

He is not laughing anymore when he looks again at the photo, for which she is grateful. He's merely studying the image.

"I admit, it wasn't a look that particularly suited me," she admits, feeling defensive.

"I don't know…" he murmurs contemplatively. "There is something about the goth Felicity that appeals to me. Though, I think that you'd appeal to me in just about any version."

That admission seems to shock them both, because he instantly falls silent after that, not looking at her. There are things between them, things that only seem to have grown over the course of the past couple of weeks, they don't talk about. The way his eyes sometimes linger too long on her, the way she sometimes touches him, they way they almost kissed and never talked about it. Including his habit to dole out handfuls of praise wherever she is concerned.

"It was not a rebel act," she blurts out to bridge over the uncomfortable silence falling over them after his words. "I just wanted to be someone else for a while." She doesn't know why she feels like she has to explain herself to him. But it feels good to finally have somebody she trusts to share this chapter of her life with.

"It was in my first year at college. And despite living in anonymity for the better part of the previous four years, I still felt vulnerable; easily recognized and exposed, I guess," she utters. She feels Oliver's gaze on her, but she doesn't look back at him, her eyes burning a hole into the old photo instead.

"All throughout high-school, I waited and waited for the other shoe to drop. For somebody making the connection, recognizing who I was and blowing the cover on my anonymous life. Going to MIT offered an escape. The possibility to become someone new and define myself in a new light, it felt liberating. Almost exhilarating. Nobody would know me at MIT, nobody would know me as the shy unsocial blonde who always seem to want to blend into the wall of her high-school classroom. It was the possibility of a fresh start. So I dyed my hair black, bought new clothes, going from a shy mousy look to a goth goddess. I guess I was hoping that if I could pull it off long enough, play the confident doesn't-give-a-shit computer geek long enough, I would become her. Fake it until you make it, right?"

"Didn't work out?" Oliver asks gently.

"Oh, it did," she says with a smile. "After a while, I really started to feel like this Felicity was who I was meant to be. I redefined myself and I liked who I've become. I found myself a group of friends and for the first time in my life, felt like I belonged somewhere. It's actually when I started hacking. It was fun and it was challenging and it forced me to push my boundaries."

"What happened?" Oliver asks and she knows he's smart enough to know it couldn't possibly have lasted.

"I fell in love," she shrugs. "One of the people in my group was a guy named Cooper. He was one year my senior and he was sweet and kind to me. He liked me and I liked him. He was easy to talk to and we had a lot in common. After a while, we started dating. It felt nice, being able to just be around someone. He was my first boyfriend. And he liked me for me, not for whom I used to be. For the first time, it felt like Lissy was just a memory, an act I used to pull as a child. It felt like she didn't define me. In a moment of weakness one night, I told him about her. It felt natural, and he was very sweet about it, didn't seem to care. It didn't matter to him, and it felt great. Liberating. Finally, I was my own person. At the end of Cooper's third year, for his cyber security final, he was to submit a virus of his own creation. Cooper was always a good hacker, but never a good student. He nearly flunked a lot of his classes, always somehow scraping by at the last moment. It was strange to me, how he never really seemed to care about his academic achievements, despite being obviously very gifted and bright where computers were concerned. Once again, Cooper didn't care about his grade, so he just threw together some easy harmful code that could barely pass for a virus, hoping it would be enough to make him pass the class. Just a couple of days before the final, word got out that there would be experts from top tech companies on the panel reviewing the virus coding, scouting for their next Elon Musk or Bill Gates." Felicity stops for a moment, takes a gulp, looking at the dark version of herself that she now knows was just as naïve as her previous blonde self.

"He wanted to get notices. So he submitted my own work, my own virus."

"What?" Oliver asks in indignation, and she can't look him in the eye, knowing what she is about to admit next.

"Yeah. And when I found out and confronted him about it, he just shrugged. He didn't care, for his, it was not theft, he reasoned we were working on coding together, so he merely borrowed my virus, it was not like I was needed the virus for any school work myself. It still made me angry. The virus was mine, my own creation. Not to mention, it had my coding signature was all over it, and it was for private use only. I felt taken advantage of. Violated. I didn't want to let it go. It got ugly when I told him if he wouldn't come clean to the panel about the origin of the virus, offering he could claim a simple uploading mix-up, I would do so myself, accusing him of theft. He threatened to expose myself in return. He said he would make sure every single person at MIT as well as online would know who I used to be and how pathetically I tried to prove to be someone else," her voice shakes when she utters her last words. "He called me a fraud. And he was right."

"God, Felicity…" Oliver tries to cut through her, but she couldn't take his words of comfort, of pity, now. Her next words are laced with silent tears.

"I couldn't understand how anybody could so something like that. We dated, for over a _year_. He slept with me and went to movies with me and ate with me and shared my bed, and then he just threw it all away over a piece of code he was too lazy to write himself. And the worst part was that when push came to shove, I was too much of a coward, and I let him get away with it."

Tears are gliding down her cheeks and she hates it. She absolutely hates it. She hates how utterly weak she is. She hates her past, and she hates how she still lets it get to her, even after all of these years, after all of the work she's put into getting to a good place, it still hurts, still humiliates her.

"That's when I realized that I can dress and mask myself as much as I like, no matter how much I change my appearance, I will still be that little insecure girl afraid of her own shadow who can't own up to her past," she burst out bitterly.

She feels Oliver's arm sneak around her shoulders to bring her closer to him, pulling at her rigid form until her cheek falls against his shoulder, and she finally gives in, burrowing against his chest. She can smell his cologne, feel his warmth seeping through his clothes, warming her chilled frame. He is close, so damn close, and she realizes, she's missed this. She's missed the small touches and gentle the caresses, the intimate closeness that came so naturally to them despite they never dared to talk about it.

He's withdrawn, after their almost-kiss during his sister's visit, he's withdrawn. And she understood it, she did, even though it stung. It's only now that she realizes how deeply she's missed his touch, and it terrifies her, the intensity of her feelings for this man. His mere presence is soothing, a balm over her edged and raw emotions.

She feels rather than hears him draw a breath, bracing for his words, thinking she is prepared.

She is not.

"I wish I could make you realize how very wrong it was what that asshole did to you," Oliver says in a deep, regretful sigh. "I wish I could take away your past, or even better, that I could make you accept it as a merely a cumulation of all of your past experiences that shaped you into the amazing person you are today. I wish I could make you stop doubting yourself, doubting how very wonderful and breathtakingly remarkable you are. But most of all, I wish I could make you see yourself through my own eyes, to see the generous, brilliant, funny and kind woman I see every single time I look at you. What Cooper did to you was utterly abhorrent. You decided to trust him, despite everything you went through in your past, you decided to trust again, and that in itself speaks about your admirable ability to forgive and see only the best in people. You chose to share something from you past, your biggest secret, with the man you loved. And now you believe yourself stupid and naïve for it. You risked your heart, gambled your soul, and had that trust betrayed. Moreover, he threatened to expose your secret and you believe yourself to be a coward because you didn't fight back.

_And that's the crux of it, isn't it? She just couldn't step over her own shadow._

"But you seem to forget the most important part. Despite how it turned out in the end, you took the step. You didn't let your fear hold you back. You shared your secret, faced your biggest fear of having that secret turned against you, but you still risked it, risking yourself in the process. And that, Felicity, that in my book is incredibly brave," he says and she can feel him pulling her even closer, his lips ghosting against the crown of her head in what she knows is a silent kiss.

Her heart soars, heavy and full with his words. She desperate wants to believe what he says. She desperately wants to see herself through his eyes. But most of all, she desperately wants to be worthy of that awe and admiration she can so clearly hear in his words.


	14. Chapter 14

It takes them a good portion of the afternoon to sift through the first line of the boxes which only uncoveres a second line behind them, and that is by far not the last one.

"Wow, just how much stuff is here?" asks Oliver in bewilderment, his eyebrows rising half with dread, half with awe. Felicity rewards his astonishment with a huff of air and a low chuckle.

"You thought I was exaggerating, didn't you?"

"Just a little bit…" he says with a wince, throwing her a somewhat sheepish look she responds to with a bark of laughter.

She's got him there; he really had no clue as to how much stuff could be accumulated throughout a several-years long childhood-star career. No wonder Felicity and her mom never felt like going through the boxes, there are dozens upon dozens of them.

_Thank God he's an FBI Agent_, Oliver thinks, cracking the stiff muscles in his neck in preparation for the task at hand. Sifting through boxes of evidence is kind of his thing. Oliver rises to his feet and pops his knuckles while staring at the pile of boxes from his spot in the center of the garage, pondering the best way on how to tackle the huge amount of information.

Going through the individual boxes has indeed proven absolutely ineffective, albeit super interesting – he still can't get over some of the most adorable childhood pictures and photos of Felicity he's seen – but they are proceeding far slower than would have hoped.

So he needs to try a new approach.

He starts at the upper left corner, taking down the boxes and sorting them by their black-sharpie inscriptions into several piles mostly due to different ages Felicity was at the woman in question steps back into the house for a while to get them both a chilled glass of iced tea.

The afternoon is rather warm, despite the late November, and the metal doors of the garage have been working like a furnace, taking in the rays of sun and heating up the space of the garage from the inside, air going stale, so they've opened garage door wide open a while ago to let some fresh air inside.

The afternoon's sun is bright and warm, its rays slowly elongating and growing richer in color with the progressing time and Oliver looks back at the task at hand that looks almost daunting.

Not one to quit easily though, he only takes a moment before he quickly returns to sorting out the boxes, uncovering just another line behind them. The sorting goes quite easily though and Oliver is quite impressed by the rather well-organized inscriptions, having had expected a less sorted out materials. But even Felicity admitted to him earlier that she suspects her mom must have gone through them at some point on her own to put the inscriptions on, describing what's approximately inside on them. He only hopes Donna's inscriptions are on point, because it could certainly help them find what they are looking for sooner, but also push what they need to the side, deeming it not relevant.

It's only when Oliver gets to the last line of boxes when his eyes suddenly catch the black sharpie words on a couple of boxes at the very far corner pushed to the back of the garage where numerous boxes simply hold one word: _Noah_.

Inexplicable excitement shooting through him at the sight, Oliver flexes his muscles to wrestle the boxes from the heap, putting them aside in a separate pile.

Felicity only gives him a raised eye-brow when she returns, silently offering him a chilled glass which he takes as her approval to his new approach.

He takes a few hasty gulps of the iced tea, suddenly parched. A slight sheen of sweat covers his face, throat and arms from moving the boxes back and forth for the better part of the afternoon and he feels a droplet glide down the side of his face to his throat and further down until it disappears, soaked up by the barrier of his Henley.

Before he knows it, the glass is empty and he can't help but let out a satisfied gasp, licking his lips to chase the last remnants of the surprising delicacy that's Donna Smoak's homemade iced tea.

He looks up and catches Felicity staring at him with a flush spreading through her cheeks, her eyes not quick enough to look away and the sheer arousal and want he sees flashing in them for the tiniest of moments takes his breath away. She quickly steps away, laying her own still half-full glass on a nearby working bench, her attention pointedly not on him anymore but the boxes he previously sorted out holding nothing but her father's name.

"Uhm, I think it's a good idea to start with these."

He doesn't comment on the fact that he clearly caught her ogling him, but a part of him that he knows is linked to his male pride soars with delight.

Felicity starts opening the boxes while he carries all of the '_Noah_' boxes into the center of the garage to create enough space for them while piling the rest back against the wall, and a companionable silence falls over them as they work, each lost in concentration on the contents of the box they are currently holding when he later joins her in the middle of the garage.

There is a little over a dozen of the '_Noah'_ boxes and they make their way through the first five rather quickly. They mostly hold old contracts, leases, utility bills, invoices and other usual documentation one simply accumulates through life. But just when Oliver closes a box and pulls another towards himself, he hears Felicity let out a little cry of surprise.

"Oliver," she croaks in a tight voice. "I think I found them."

He is up in a flash, scooting close to her to see what she means. She is holding several sheets of papers stapled together that hold a list of names and addresses written down in a neat handwriting.

"I found these at the top," Felicity utters, showing him the lists and peeking inside the box at what lies underneath. There are letters, tightly compressed piles of letters bound together by a rubber band, each marked with a number and stamped together with a copy of what Oliver now knows from the childish paper and girlish handwriting are copies of Felicity's answers. His heart skips a beat, because this is it; they are so close he can nearly feel it at the tip of his tongue.

He has to agree with her previous words about her dad being a neat freak, which absolutely works in their favor now. The lists along with the letters are comprehensive, very detailed and extremely well organized.

The chronological order they are sorted helps them to realize that what they are looking at is the result of less than a year of Felicity's received and answered letters and it's only then when the magnitude of what she was forced to do by her own father each Sunday afternoon as a child really hits him. She was only a little girl; she should have rode her bike around the neighborhood or play with her peers, not answering letters to strangers obsessed with her public persona. Even her free time was spend working, building an image so her father could capitalize on her sweet nature even more, and it pulls at something inside Oliver, knowing she was forced to go through that as a child.

He pushes the uncomfortable thoughts to the back of his mind however, his full focus now on Felicity, who is hastily taking off the lids of the remaining boxes looking through them in an attempt to find something specific until she finally stops, a sound of victory leaving her throat when she finds what she was looking for. She extracts another thick pile of tightly bound letters, holding it in one hand while her other takes out another pile of what must be the copies of her answers, and upon seeing the design of little stars and rainbows on the photocopied paper, Oliver's breath stops in his lungs.

It takes less than five minutes to find what they are looking for and Oliver can't believe it, can't believe they're holding the origins of where this whole nightmare has started in their hands.

Felicity finds her answering letter first, quickly able to match the pieces found in Shelby's hand to her own whole copy, while Oliver consults the lists, matching the number on Felicity's answer to the original fan letter.

_Stanley Dover_

The name and address stare at him, looking so innocent, so unassuming, and Oliver's gut churns.

That's his name. The Star City Slasher's name is one Stanley Dover.

Felicity is already engrossed in reading the original letter and her soft "_Oh my god_" instantly draws Oliver's attention. He immediately scoots closer to Felicity joining her in reading the letter over her shoulder.

_Dear Lissy,_

_I don't know where to start. But I know that I need to write to you to let you know that youve been the only thing keeping me going for the past year, and I wanted to thank you for it. _

_My name is Stan and Im 17yo. Im from Tulsa, Oklahoma. You may wonder why a 17yo boy is writin to you. Its not like that, I swear. Its because of my sister, Chrissy. She loved your show since forever and made me watch every one episode together with her. Chrissy would have her 12. b-day tomorrow. But last year, our dad – a drunk – crashed the car while completelly vasted. Chrissy was in the back of the car. She didnt have her seatbelt on and she didnt make it. Our mom doesnt live with us. She left when Chrissy was just a baby and I cared of her cause dad did not. She was my baby sister and my best friend. When she died and dad got arested, I had no place to go. Im in foster care now, but its tough. They dont get me. They dont understand. Nobody does. I am so sad and angry all the time. I miss my sister. I often wish it was me sitting in the back of the car and not Chrissy. The only thing I now have is your show which reminds me of her. Without it I dont know what I would do. Thank you, Lissy, for always being their for me. And thank you for always making my sister smile. She dreamed to meet you one day. I try to cary on for her. You are great. Stay great._

_Stan_

Felicity is still reeling from the letter itself, her body slightly shaking, so Oliver gently takes her photocopied answer from her, his heart churning at the now familiar childish handwriting and the very kind words of a sweet, compassionate thirteen-year-old girl.

_Dear Stan,_

_I honestly don't know what to say, what to write back to you. I am so, so sorry for what happened to Chrissy. It's a tragedy, and it's even worse that it was caused by your own father. She seemed like a lovely girl. I know it might look impossible now, an insurmountable task, but I hope that you can recover from her loss one day._

_From what you wrote, you were a great brother. I can tell that you cared for her very much. It's wonderful that she had a brother such as you, who was always there for her. I don't have any siblings, but I know that if I had, I would want to have a brother like you do. _

_I am so happy and grateful to hear that my show could bring your sister so much joy and that you two could bond over it. I know life looks sad and cruel right now, because you lost your sister who you loved very much. But am sure it will get better with time as I am sure your sister would want you to be happy. My mom says that time heals all wounds. So hang in there, Stan. I am sure light will shine bright for you one day too, like the stars and rainbows on this letter._

_Yours Lissy_

"I remember him…" Felicity murmurs, her voice shaking with suppressed emotion. "I remember writing this letter, because I was struggling with the answer so damn much. I didn't know what to write…how to comfort him. What do you write to something like that?" she cries, looking at Oliver in distress and completely loss.

_What do you write to a person whose father just killed their baby sister?_

Oliver doesn't know. What he knows is there would be no words of consolation for him if his own baby sister was killed, in such a horrible way on top of that and by the actions of their own father.

Slowly, the picture of a seventeen-year-old named Stanley Dover, an abandoned, neglected and probably even abused boy starts to emerge. A boy who had only one person in his life he ever loved and cared for fiercely and unconditionally, whose fate he carried on his shoulders because he felt the sole person responsible for her wellbeing. A person who was taken from him suddenly and violently. And he snapped. He latched onto the one connection he had with his sister, transferring all of his unprocessed feelings towards this one connection he's got left, and he send out a signal, a cry for help. And it was answered.

And so the connection – the obsession that only grew with time – was created.

xxx

Oliver is on the phone, walking the short way between the garage's pulled up gate and Donna's private driveway in circles and pacing back and forth as he relies all what they've found to Digg, already in full working mode while debriefing his partner on their findings, Stanley Dover's identity, assigning and delegating tasks for his team to complete until he and Felicity are back in town.

More often than not, his eyes stray to Felicity's silent form still hunched on the ground in the middle of the garage, her back facing him as she still reels from finding the letters, one hand tightly gripping the short note that started it all while the other hold onto one of the boxes for support.

Oliver has stepped out, not only to make the call, but also to give her some space, offer her a tiny bit of privacy to collect her thoughts. Yet the sight of her there hunched on the cement floor, alone and a little broken, pulls at his heartstrings and he has a hard time ignoring the inner voice calling out to him to step back and offer her any measure of comfort she'll take.

That's why he's the first to notice Donna step inside the garage, entering through the door connecting to the house, her eyes instantly seeking out her daughter hunched on the ground over the boxes.

"Felicity, honey, do you want me to order you a-" Donna starts saying but stops mid-sentence once walking further inside the space, her eyes gliding over the chaos of the garage, her sharp eyes instantly zeroing in on the boxes Oliver and Felicity have selected and pulled to the center of the garage, singling them out against the dozens of other Lissy boxes once again neatly pushed against the wall.

"What are you doing?" Donna asks sharply. "Those are your father's private boxes," she exclaims, walking further inside and Oliver – still on the phone to Digg – instinctively take a step back inside, instantly alarmed by the sharp tone of indignation in Donna's voice.

"Mom-" Felicity starts to say in alarm, a deer-in-the-headlights expression settling over her features, but her mother's face merely hardens.

"Are you kidding me, Felicity?! I just _knew_ this wasn't about Lissy. You are trying to find him, aren't you? I can't believe this!" Donna cries angrily, clearly upset, her hands falling against her hips in a confrontational posture.

"Digg, I am gonna have to call you back," Oliver instantly says, abruptly ending the call and stepping more fully into the garage just as Felicity rising to her feet while speaking in a placating tone. "Mom, you don't understand–"

Her mom, however, won't have any of it, her hands slide around herself, a gesture as much self-protective as well as defiant in a stands-off with her daughter, holding herself tightly and almost shaking with the effort to suppress a sudden rush of anger, her eyes narrowing as she almost hisses her next words; "You are right, Felicity, I don't get it! That man was nothing but a greedy bastard ready to ruin his daughter's life over money–"

"Mom, please– " Felicity cries, her voice shaking, taking a quick step closer to her mother and holding her hands up in a placating, beseeching gesture just as Oliver steps fully inside the garage stopping just a couple of feet behind Felicity, not willing to barge into the middle of the mother-daughter argument but also not wanting Felicity to feel alone in this.

"No, sweetheart! There is not _but_ in this! I won't let you make that mistake. Not after I have fought him tooth and nail not to ruin your life any further than he already has."

"Mom," Felicity tries again, but her watery voice lacks strength, shaking with tears Oliver can't see but can clearly hear.

"No, you need to hear this, Felicity. I understand you have questions, that you believe there are some answers you might not know yet, that there is more to the story, now that you are a grown woman. I would lie if I said I wasn't dreading the day this would come up again, I _knew_ this day was coming, but you need to hear this, because I didn't pay for three years of therapy so my daughter wouldn't be scared of her own shadow only to let her be sucked into the web of lies and abuse of that man again!"

"Mom, please, just stop. It's not–" Felicity is openly crying now, her body shaking with sobs and Oliver's feet instantly take him closer to stand directly behind her, his hand silently rising to come rest against the small of her back, fingers curling into the soft fabric of her dress.

Donna is not faring better than her daughter, just on the brink of her own emotional breakdown, and Oliver is left standing there, wondering in bewilderment how the situation has spun out of control so quickly.

Neither woman says anything, but both women are shaking, one with sobs and one with anger, frustration and a hint of fear in her eyes before Donna's anger finally melts away and turns into desolation as she regards her daughter with tears glistening in her eyes. "Do you know how it broke me, sweetheart? Do you know how it feels to get called to the hospital in the middle of the night, in a strange city, to see your child there like that, hurt and scared… Do you know what it felt like to hold your tiny, shaking frame, to hold your small hand through all of that, through all of those invasive exams–"

"I know, mom, I was there!" Felicity cuts her off sharply.

"Then how can you?" Donna questions, incomprehension, hurt and a hint of betrayal visible on her face. "How can you find it in you to show even an ounce of interest for the man had put you through all of that, a man who wanted to _continue_ putting you through that? His own daughter!"

But Felicity is not listening anymore. She bolts from the garage, dashing around her mother and almost running through the door her mother's come in, escaping both, the situation as well as her mother's words, leaving Oliver utterly bewildered and shell-shocked, reeling at what has just transpired.

A sick feeling drops into the pit of his stomach at the words that were exchanged, but even more so at the words that weren't, because what was implied has his mind instantly jumping to conclusions and possible missing pieces of Donna's story. But he's missing just too much to get any real idea, what was said offering just too little and too much information at once to make a clear picture of what it all means.

Her daughter leaving, Donna now turns her attention to the only remaining person in the garage. The fight has gone out from her, her own tears finally slipping down and silently gliding down her face as she gives him a helpless, heartbroken look, clearly not aware or at the moment realizing that Oliver is not privy to what appears to be an incredibly private and sensitive family secret that was just spilled in front of a complete stranger.

"I can't let her do such a mistake, Oliver. I can't let my baby girl fall under her father's spell again, because believe me, if Felicity's father was good at anything in his life, it was manipulation. He could charm his way into your life, a master of persuasion, until I didn't know right from wrong anymore. He was gaslighting me for years and guilt-tripping our child to feed his own agenda. And after all his greedy plans and schemes blew into our faces, he failed his daughter, his baby girl, even further. He has utterly failed her, in every possible way a father can fail a child. And then he left. He _left_ her, when she needed him the most, breaking my baby in a way I was never able to repair. I don't deny, I have my fair share of blame too. I should have stopped him, a long time ago, but I didn't, and for that, I will forever feel guilty. But at least I knew when to stop and step away while he didn't, _wouldn't_. While he would readily continue capitalizing on his own flesh and blood as if nothing happened. And he would do it again, in a blink of an eye. I just know it, he would try to do it today the same way he did back then. It took me an embarrassingly long time to finally recognize him for who he really was, how far he was willing to go and what he was willing to sacrifice to feed his own ambition, but I did. And I can't let him do that again, I can't let him poison my daughter again. So I beg you Oliver. Please! You care, I can see it clearly in your eyes, you care for my daughter. So don't let my baby make the mistake of believing her father could have changed, or she will just get hurt again."

xxx

He finds her sitting hunched on the side of her twin bed in her childhood bedroom.

It's an attic space, solid wood ceiling sharply beveled, which gives the room a nice and cozy atmosphere. There is a wide window with street view with a table and a chair underneath it. One wall is covered with shelves filled with books and trinkets, some academic trophies. The other is littered with posters of decade old movies and boy bands.

It's such an ordinary, regular teenage girl's bedroom. Nobody would ever suspect what kind of extraordinary girl lived her.

Felicity doesn't acknowledge his presence, but Oliver knows she is aware of him being there. He stands in the partly opened door to her room awkwardly for a couple of moments, hands pushed deep into his pockets. He's unsure what to do, where to fit in this sacred space of hers. He only knows he wants to be here, wants to offer her any kind of comfort and help he can.

He wants to repay her kindness, the way she so effortlessly, so naturally soothed his pain upon his admission of his own crappy adolescent years. But above that, he just wants be here for _her_.

He just stays like that for a while, neither stepping full into the room nor leaving. Felicity must recognize his indecision after a while, because she pats the space next to her on the flowery bedspread, wordlessly inviting him to sit down.

He leaves a couple of inches between them, not wanting to crowd her space but unable to help himself from trailing his fingers over hers, grasping her tiny cool fingers in his big warm hand.

He waits, offering her time and space to do whatever she feels most comfortable with. If she decides to ignore what just transpired down between her mother and her, he will respect that. If she chooses to share the obviously painful memories with him, he will listen.

Whatever she decides.

They stay like that for a long while, silence dominating the room, their breathing the only sounds in the room. Then, in a voice so quiet he has to strain his ears, Felicity finally speaks.

"I was thirteen. Lissy's popularity was at its peak, the format starting to attract bigger crowds and ultimately bigger Hollywood producers. I was invited to LA to meet with a big studio representative interested in making a Lissy movie. My dad said it was the opportunity of a lifetime." She doesn't turn her head towards him, but even from his angle, Oliver can see a sad smile tug at her lips. He gives her hand a squeeze.

"We flew to LA and spent a week there. I don't remember much about the business talks and negotiations. My dad wouldn't usually take me to meetings unless my presence was directly requested. I didn't mind, they were usually super boring anyway. What I do remember is me and my mom walking along the beach collecting shells and shrieking in delight when the foamy waves hit our feet or visiting the amusement parks, going shopping… the usual stuff a thirteen-year-old would enjoy doing with her mom." Her sad smile turns into a soft, wistful thing and the emotions swirling through Oliver's chest at the sight are nearly too much to bear. "On the last evening, there was a big party at one of the investor's house. I was invited, was told it would make good publicity if I was seen among the young and wealthy and popular of LA, mingling. My mom didn't want me to go. She said I was too young, didn't want me to be exposed to possible bad influence. It was one thing to have my own show on the east coast, where I was relative secluded from the craze of Hollywood, doing my own thing on my own terms, but being directly in the middle of who-is-who in Hollywood was a tad too much in her eyes. But my dad insisted, reasoned it was important for my career. It was just one evening. To be honest, I was quite excited to go. It's not every day you get invited to meet the popular kids of Hollywood, and I was young and excited, and I begged my mom to let me go. Finally, she agreed under the condition her and my dad would spend the evening alongside me, chaperoning me and keeping an eye on me at all times. To be honest, I didn't really care. All I wanted was to finally see a little of that famous Hollywood glammer." She makes a short pause, her cool fingers twitching inside of Oliver's hand, still not looking at him, his words directed an no one in particular as she gazes unseeingly in front of her.

"As it was, my mom got a bad case of migraine the day of the party. She's been battling them for years, those crippling kinds where she would spend the day in bed in enormous pain, feeling sick and often vomiting. She was managing them, so they weren't that frequent, but probably the stress of the whole week, the change of scenery, something triggered it. She couldn't go. But I was already so excited, she didn't have the heart to tell me no. And my dad would still be there, keeping an eye on me. So we made it to the party and it was... well, nothing like I'd imagined. It felt like I stepped into a zoo with all cages wide open. There were young people, actors big and small mingling with local rich kids whose parents meant something, drinking booze, dancing and jumping into the huge pool in the backyard. Music was blasting, but there were still people the age of my father in business casual, nursing a whiskey while casually talking over possible deals like this was any normal setting. I was… taken-aback. I was introduced to a couple of the younger attendees and even today, I remember clearly how out of place I felt. Some of the girls were allegedly my age or just a tad older, but they wore heavy makeup and skimpy dresses, walking on high heels and reminding me more of my mom than any girl my age I've ever met, their eyes already glassed over by alcohol or drugs. It was a pandemonium and quite sobering, and I didn't like it very much. Before long, my dad got sucked into a circle of those business men talking deals over their whiskey."

Felicity's eyes are glassed over as she remembers, sucked into her own memories, voice filled with detachment and melancholy. He doesn't like it, not one bit.

"It was getting late and the music was really blasting, making my head pulsate unpleasantly. I remember wandering off, trying to explore the house a little and find a quiet nook I could catch a breath. The place was huge, a mansion really, with several floors filled with game rooms and saloons, and there seemed to be people everywhere. I remember there was a huge, ancient-looking ornate fireplace, a pool table and a disco ball in the same room. I remember feeling hot and crowded, somebody offering me a glass of what appeared to be champagne. I knew I wasn't allowed to drink, but I was so thirsty, I downed the glass. That's the last thing I remember coherently."

A fat tear slips down her cheek, her head falling down and hair falling around her face in a curtain, hiding her face from Oliver's view, and he squeezes her fingers as dread fills his stomach at what she's going to say next. But Felicity has stopped, isn't talking anymore, and Oliver realizes, whatever she was about to say, she is struggling with the words.

"You don't have to tell me," he utters quietly, turning towards her while one of his hands automatically rises to cup her cheeks and gently glide over the side of her face, his fingers combing back the gold of her hair that has fallen forward back behind her ear.

Felicity shakes her head at him, even as another tear slips down, nuzzling her face into his hand. "I want to tell you," she chokes out on a whisper. "I just… I've never told anybody in my life."

The revelation guts him.

"My parents know, of course. My therapist knows. But I never told anybody else, ever." _Not even Cooper _is implied, and Oliver doesn't know whether to feel sad or grateful for that.

He allows her time to get her composure back, using it to slowly stroke his fingers through her hair, gliding the pads of his fingers over the soft, heated skin on her cheeks in what he hopes is a soothing gesture, and he wait her out.

After the longest of pauses, she finds her courage at last, continuing her tale. "I was drugged and found some time later by my father in one of the rooms upstairs. I have no recollection of how I got there. My–" her voice trembles, "My skirt was pulled up over my hips, exposing me, my blouse opened."

Dread like he never felt before fills Oliver's stomach.

"I was rushed to the hospital, given drug tests and IVs to flush whatever I was dosed with out of my system. Physically, I seemed unharmed. I still remember the fear on my mom's face as she rushed into the room, the utter terror at seeing me on the hospital bed. I remember the guilt on my father's face, the devastation of not knowing what had happened to me in that half an hour I was unaccounted for," she says, her words finishing on a sob. "They– uhm…" she stops, her mouth pulling into a self-deprecating smile, a tiny mirthless laugh that chills him to his bones leaving her lips.

"They had to do a rape kit. To be sure what happened. I remember squeezing my mom's hand and wrist so hard through it she was left with bruises for days after. The nurses and doctors were very kind, but it was still invasive and utterly humiliating, and I was thirteen and I was terrified.

"The exam didn't find anything," she says at last after a while, her beautiful, devastated eyes finally meeting his. "Either he got spooked or changed his mind or didn't want to go all the way, whatever the reason, I wasn't touched beyond having my clothes removed. But I still felt dirty. Violated. Devastated and broken and tainted."

More tears are slipping from her eyes, but Felicity seems resigned to them at this point, her voice gaining a monotone, completely detached tone.

"We flew home the first chance we got. I remember being tucked close against my mom's side during the flight, pressed against her like a small child seeking comfort. My dad was there too. He was feeling guilty, that one was clear. He tried to offer comfort and strength, but I was scared and I just wanted my mom. I remember her not talking to him at that point. Hasn't been ever since I was released from the hospital. She was livid with him, I could tell, angry and disappointed. I remember feeling bad for him. She was angry at him because he didn't do as promised to not let me out of his sight, but all I could think about was that it was me who's wandered away from him. Back then, I didn't see it from an adult's standpoint. That he was my father, my parent and guardian. That he should never let me wander off in the first place and should have gripped my arm at all times instead of socializing with the other guests and leaving me to my own devices at a party like that. But back then, I felt like I've failed them both."

She takes a shuddering breath, but continues, determination setting in her shoulders.

"We came home, and I took a couple of weeks off from Lissy, claiming illness. I spent the time mostly in my bed, watching tv shows with my mom and pretending the outside world didn't exist. I remember how quiet it was in the house outside of the TV. My parents still weren't talking. I know my dad tried to apologize a couple of times, but my mom wouldn't hear it.

"The two of them were the only people I saw for a couple of weeks. And they didn't talk to each other. It was… bad. I wasn't sleeping well at night, I was having nightmares, some weird flashbacks I couldn't figure out to this day. I started getting panic attacks whenever I was supposed to step outside the house. When the day came to return on set of Lissy, the panic attack I got upon the mere thought of going out there again was so crippling my mom had to call a good friend of hers, a psychiatrist, to subscribe some Zoloft to me. I was in therapy for the following three years."

"What happened with Lissy?" Oliver asks carefully. Felicity sighs, looking tired.

"Naturally, my mom wanted me out. She was livid at my dad for what he allowed to happen, but she also saw I was in no state to continue the show until I got on my feet again. He disagreed. He said I would stay in therapy, medicated if needed for the time being, but I could push through, I was strong enough, and it would get easier with time. He believed the show was something I loved doing, so it would help me get back to normal instead of being cooped up at home and shunning the outside like my mom wanted."

"What did you want?" Oliver murmured, and Felicity gave him a sad smile.

"See, that's what nobody asked me. But I know I wasn't ready to return to Lissy, not like before. There was no way I could put on the what would now be a fake cheery persona. I felt like a fraud. I felt weak and tired. And dirty still. Damaged goods," she whispers and Oliver's heart breaks.

"You are not-" he starts to say but she cuts him off quickly.

"I know."

Her tone is sure, no trace of any lingering doubt, and for that, he is grateful. "It took me a couple of years, but I got to a point where I realized that whatever happened that night wasn't my fault. That it didn't make me any less of a human being worth of love and affection."

Oliver nods, something inside him easing at the knowledge. Because she is. She is worth _everything._ And he can't even start to imagine how that must have felt like for her, to have been violated in such a brutal way at such a tender age. So much pressure being put on a thirteen-year-old, he knows only very few wouldn't crack. He always admired her, for her wit, her strength, her generous kindness. But at this moment, he's nearly overwhelmed with his affection for her.

"You are remarkable," he murmurs, the words slipping out on his own volition in a quiet, reverent sigh. For a moment, he berates himself for voicing his thought aloud – maybe it's not the time or the place to make such heavy proclamations – but then the corner of her mouth twitches and slowly pulls up at his words and he's glad he's voiced his thoughts.

"Thank you for remarking on it."

He hates how the easy smile falls away upon his next question, but he cannot ask. "Is that the reason behind your parents divorce?"

Her eyes fall down and she pulls a little away from him. "Yes and no. What happened in LA was a catalyst, but the cracks were already there before. At least that's what my mom later told me. She suspected my father was using me for years, living off of me instead of finding a job of his own, choosing the easier road to use my talents than to accomplish something for himself. He argued he sacrificed everything for my success and now my mom was throwing it back into his face despite being fully on board at the beginning. Him being adamant I continue with Lissy was what ultimate broke the camel's back. My mom wouldn't have it, she wanted out. She was disgusted and stressed over my safety and wellbeing, angry by the studio's ever-growing demands on my time. She was having her marriage falling apart and during all of that, she was constantly dealing with me and my severe panic attacks and mental problems. There was no out and she's had enough. She asked for a divorce and full custody. My father fought her, wanted full custody too, but he had no chance, not in light of my psychiatrist's testimony who said I absolutely needed a quiet, normal environment to make a full recovery. He was not ready to make that sacrifice while my mother was." Felicity says, shrugging non-comitally. Like it was no big deal her father would rather have her perform, her personal wellbeing be damned, than offer her the quiet protection of anonymity to grow into a balanced, healthy individual.

"He was angry. I honestly don't know what he expected. He was angry he didn't get custody, he was angry at my mom for pulling me away from a stellar career at the worst possible moment. And I think, deep down, he was angry with me for not being able to get a grip and pulling myself together quicker, disappointed in me for being a coward by not making enough effort to push through my issues."

"Excuse me?" Oliver asks, his voice coming out in an angry hiss, fury settling inside his chest at her words. Felicity just shrugs, apparently long resigned to the situation, but in Oliver's eyes, there is no excuse. Donna's angry words come sharply back to him and he understands now, understands why she would absolutely loath the idea of her daughter to possibly want to reconnect with her ex-husband.

"I felt like I failed him for a long time. I know my mom did what was best for me back then. But he left and I thought… maybe if I didn't wander off that day, maybe if I didn't react so strongly to what happened… I mean, it's not like anything really happened–" Even as her words are leaving her mouth, Oliver is shaking his head.

"No! Let me stop you right there, Felicity. Your mom did what was best for you at that time, and I am so glad you had at least one parent who saw that. Who saw you, and put your needs above everything else." He found a new level of respect for Donna Smoak, who found the courage to let her family break apart to protect her daughter. At the same time, he was so angry with one Noah Kuttler, a man he's never even met but felt like punching if he ever did. "I am sorry, but you father was selfish and greedy." Donna's previous words ring in his ears, making that much more sense. "He utterly failed you, as a parent, as a father as well as a guardian. And then he expected you to move on. No parent should ever want to sacrifice their child for money or fame. You deserved so much better from him, Felicity. You deserved to be loved and cherished and supported unconditionally. You still do, and any person who is allowed to be a part of your life should put you as their absolute priority."

Fresh tears enter her eyes as she gazes at him, her pupils dilated, making her irises impossibly blue. She looks young and vulnerable, weighted down by years of self-doubt and regret.

His hands are framing her face now, thumbs caressing flushed wet cheeks. She looks breathtaking and so lovely and yes, he realizes with absolutely clarity, he is completely and hopelessly in love with her. He wants to kiss her, wants to erase that sad frown from her brow, so desperately. But he doesn't want to presume.

She is so unique, singular. And yet, every man she's ever had a relationship with has only taken advantage of her.

He refuses to be one of those men. So he waits her out, holds her face close, his intent clear, but doesn't take the last step himself. He puts all that he's feeling for her in that one single look, letting his eyes tell her everything he won't allow himself to tell her with words.

And she does, she hears him. He can see her face transform from a pained expression to a slightly confused frown until finally something akin to awe blossoms across her face, and he offers her a smile, because despite all, he feels like smiling. Where this woman is concerned, he wants nothing else but smile, because she makes him happy.

"Oliver?" she murmurs and it's a tiny, awed sound, their hot breaths mingling. Her eyes dip to his mouth for a fraction of a second, and it's possibly the hottest thing he's ever witnessed in his entire life.

"Oliver," she whispers again, and this time, his name is not a question, it's the answer.

She tips her head, closing the remaining gap between them, touching her mouth against his. It's an innocent kiss, lips pressing against lips, but it electrocutes everything in Oliver. He is hot and cold at the same time, a shiver running down his spine from the simple touch.

But before he can recover from the thought that Felicity Smoak has kissed him, she is already pressing her lips against him again, more firmly, demanding more, and when she opens her mouth, her tongue slipping out to gently lick the seam of his mouth, everything else around Oliver ceases to exists but that one incredible sensation.

There is nothing else but Felicity and him, and the kiss they share to end all kisses. To devastate him, ruin him for any other woman ever again. It's slow and unhurried and deep, her lips plump and soft and warm, exactly like he's always dreamed they would be.

But no, no, it's better. This is a thousand times better than what he could possibly have dreamed about.

He shifts on the bed, pulling her closer, fingers of one hand curling around the nape of her neck to pull her even deeper into the kiss while his other hand sneaks around her slim waits, bringing her upper body flush with his. A low moan escapes her, and the sound shoots straight to his groin, making it tighten. And then she kisses him even more.

She is playful. It shouldn't surprise him, but it does. Her tongue slips in and out of his mouth, delving into his mouth one moment and caressing his lips the other. Her teeth pull at his lower lip before she licks a hot path to the side of his mouth, kissing his mole sloppily before she returns back to his lips and wow… she is… she is a really good kisser.

Okay, scratch that. She is the _best_ kisser. He doesn't want to ever be kissed by anybody else ever again.

It takes an eternity, or it's just a moment, Oliver doesn't know and doesn't particularly care either.

It's a moment of sheer perfection.

When they finally pull apart, Oliver feels dazed. Ravished. Turned on and smitten and hopelessly in love with the amazing woman he's holding in his arms. Sometime, somehow, she's crawled over, one of her bend knees thrown over him and nearly straddling him sideways.

Her body is warm and soft, her cheeks flushed, lips rosy and swollen, an expression of innocent amazement playing across her lovely face, and he's never seen anything so endearing and erotic in his life.

"Wow," she whispers, closing her eyes, her tongue darting out to licks her lips, the remnants of his taste, and Oliver is a goner. A deep groan leaves his mouth, his pants pulling unbearably tight as he watches her.

"Wow, indeed," he says in a tight, dazed voice he doesn't recognize.

A beautiful smile blossoms across her face, a vibrant living thing. Her eyes sparkle with mirth and mischief and simple joy, and it steals Oliver's breath away.

He caresses her face, trailing the pads of his fingers over her cheeks in awe, feeling her soft skin stretched taunt by her smile, and he can't help but offer her one of his in return.

His pocket vibrates. And vibrates again with an incoming message, and Oliver's eyes fall shut in frustration, the reality crashing down around them and bursting the quiet joyful bubble they've just created around themselves.

Reluctantly, he extracts the offending phone from his pocket, looking at the screen.

_Lyla wants to know when you two will be back. Working leads on Dover in the meantime, nothing specific yet, no last know address. He's been moving around a lot, has been living off the grid the past year. Diggle_

With a sigh, Oliver types a quick reply, pushing the phone inside his pocket once again, but the moment is already gone, their reality already settling in.

"Work?"

He nods and Felicity's face falls for the shortest of moments before she schools her features once again. Regret fills him instantly, because it shouldn't be like this.

He brings his hands to her face once again, pulling her close to steal one more reassuring kiss from her.

"Felicity," he murmurs, eyes roaming her face, the words he knows he has to say only reluctantly pushing past his lips. "I know this comes at the least convenient time, if there ever is such a thing." His voice is low and gentle, a breeze against her lips while his eyes determinedly hold hers. "Right now, there is a million things on both of our minds as well as our plates. And as much as I would like to just stay within this bubble with you, we can't."

The light in her eyes dims somewhat, her gaze shuttering all of a sudden, all of her previous easy joy and openness gone in a flash, wariness settling inside those beautiful, bottomless blues of hers, and her sudden emotional withdrawal feels like a punch to the gut.

"Hey, no," he says, shaking his head rather forcibly while urging with his hands to look back at him.

"Look at me, Felicity. Please."

She does, and the vulnerability and insecurity in her eyes steals his breath away. So he takes a deep breath and just takes the step, no matter how terrifying it feels, and lays his card open.

"I care about you, Felicity. I care about you a lot. Definitely far more than I am supposed to. But at the same time, it puts me in a tricky situation. Because I shouldn't have developed feelings for you, even though they are too strong now not to acknowledge them or openly try to deny them any longer. I can't act on these feelings, however, no matter how much I want to; not until this situation we're finding ourselves in is off the table. If my colleagues or superiors found out, I would be pulled from the case for conflict of interest and I can't have that. I can't let anybody else handle this case, I absolutely need to be in control and lead the search for the Slasher while making absolutely sure that you are kept safe at all times. But above that, I also believe I am currently the most invested Agent out there ready to give the case all the attention it deserves to finally see this thing through."

There is a pause where Oliver thinks about what he is about to tell her next, choosing his words carefully because there absolutely can't be no doubts about what he means with his following words.

"And you Felicity… you need to have this situation resolved before making any important life decisions. You need to physically be well and _feel_ safe in order to regain any semblance of your own self. Only then can you be sure that you are making decisions based on your own free will and not under duress because your life is in upheaval and you are searching for a safe ground. It would be not fair to you." He sees she's about to protest, but he doesn't let her. "I know that you feel that's not the case, but I, for my own clear conscience, need to know that. I need to make absolutely sure that if you make any important choices regarding your life and my place in it, it will be without the disadvantage of your life currently being destabilized and uncertain. Do you understand?"

She takes a long pause just gazing at him, searching his eyes as if looking for a catch, but Oliver knows she won't find any. There is no catch. He loves her. He just can't be with her right now.

It takes the longest, most agonizing moments, but at least, Felicity's eyes sparkle with understanding and she gives Oliver a tiny nod.

"Good," he says elated, a heavy whoosh of air leaving his lungs. "Because I do care about you, Felicity. And I do want to explore where this thing between us could lead. I think- I have a feeling it might turn out to be one of the most important and greatest things I've ever done in my life. And I don't want to rush it or screw it up. I want to take my time with you. I want to take you to a proper date, possibly a nice quiet restaurant, classy but nothing too elaborate, where we can talk over dinner, maybe share a dessert. I want to offer to walk you home afterwards, hoping that you, maybe slightly tipsy from the red wine, say yes. I want to try to kiss you in front of your door and await eagerly whether you'll ask me inside for coffee. I want the whole package."

A breathless gasp leaves her lips at his words. "Seems like you've put quite a lot of thought into this," she whispers in a breathy voice.

"I have," he confirms, looking her in the eye, willing her to see how very serious he is about this. "I want to do this right. Because you deserve it."

She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth and the motion looks painful, so he strokes his thumb above it, using it to free the abused flesh.

"Will you wait for me?" he asks, seeing how his question catches her off-guard. "Are you willing to wait until we see this thing through, together, before we give _us_ a try?"

She gazes at him for a long time, taking in his words, analyzing them, and he is glad, because it means she is seriously pondering the whole picture and not rush into things only because she is scared their tomorrows are not guaranteed.

"Of course," she whispers at last, a small smile pulling at her mouth, and Oliver lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. "I'll always wait for you."

That hits him straight in the heart and he pulls her close, hugging her tight, committing the last intimate moment they'll share for the nearest future to memory, because he knows, outside of this room, outside this house, the real and very dangerous world awaits.

xxx

It's late when they descend the stairs, the smell of pizza welcoming them. There's a tentative smile stretching over Donna's face, a piece offering of sorts as she directs them to sit at the table, pouring them water and chattering away about her new plans for her garden.

Nobody mentions Felicity's father anymore and slowly Oliver feels Felicity relax next to him, her hand silently seeking out his underneath the table.

They share what is overall a very nice meal, Donna questioning Oliver a little about his background and apart from revealing his true occupation to her, Oliver stays truthful, offering a little about his military history and his family as well, glossing over the facts regarding the enormous Queen wealth or the estranged relationship with his parents. Felicity is rather quiet and subdued through dinner, but she does listen to him and Donna quietly talking, seemingly enjoying herself now that the topic of her father is once again put to rest, for which Oliver is grateful. She deserves to spend at least one evening in piece. One evening when not everything discussed is an emotional minefield or a battleground. They will be back in the middle of things soon enough, and Oliver's stomach is already churning at the thought of having to return back to Star City and back to the dangers and uncertainty lying there.

He must zone out for a while there, because when he tunes into the conversation after a while, he is surprised to hear Felicity and Donna laughing together over a story Felicity's is telling. He can hear his and Thea's names mentioned somewhere in there and he pulls himself back into the moment, enjoying the feeling on Felicity's small warm hand still grasping his under the table, squeezing as she catches his gaze during a tiny pause, the joyful spark in her eyes and easy brilliant smile she offers him hitting him straight in the chest.

He holds her gaze a tad too long until a throat clears and when he turns his head, he nearly blushes at the knowing, almost sly grin stretching across Donna Smoak's face.

To the woman's credit, she never comments on it any further. Only once the time comes to part ways does she pull Oliver into a surprisingly heartwarming hug, kissing his cheek and whispering against his ear with an easy smile to take good care of her daughter and keep her safe.

His stomach plummets at her words and it crashes over him then, the fact that Donna isn't aware what she is asking, how close her simple words are actually hitting close to home and despite his best efforts, his answering smile turns somewhat sour, his gut churning with guilt when all he can offer her is a tight curt nod.

He can't let her down. He absolutely can't.

Because if he does, it means everything is going straight to hell.


End file.
